Scratch the Surface
by Melody Harper
Summary: Follow-up to 'Mr. Scratch.' The worst thing you can do to a leader and a very private man, is rip his armor off... Winner of 2015 Profiler's Choice Awards for Best Angst, Best Post-Ep, and Best Hotch/Rossi.
1. Neck

"Now I know what you're afraid of…"

The gun's snub nose dropped, leveling its aim at Hotch. Training the obscene hole in the center of its muzzle on him.

"NO!" He turned away, cowering from the bullet he knew would follow; the smug laughter he knew would come next; the pain and shock and fade-to-death after that.

"_NOOOO!_"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

Hotch buried his face in his hands and listened to Rossi harangue him about spilling his guts.

_Weird terminology…spilling one's guts…Not the most persuasive way to encourage someone to talk._ But Dave wouldn't leave him alone.

He didn't know how to start. Rossi seemed to think it was a matter of _where_ to start. But it wasn't.

Hotch knew what he'd seen and what it meant. He just didn't want to admit it. Giving it breath, letting the words take flight would confirm the worst part. He'd tried to deny it for months and months and months. He'd buried it so deeply he could function on a daily basis without anyone the wiser.

But the images that the unsub had dredged up and customized for his own pleasure and Hotch's torment made it impossible to ignore anymore.

Hotch didn't want to say it. Didn't want Rossi to know. Or anyone for that matter. Wished he could dig it out of his own brain and crush it beneath his heel. Smudge it into the pavement so it was nothing more than a smear that would wash away in the next heavy rain.

But it was there. Part of him.

And now someone else knew, too.

Hotch had expected Peter Lewis to commit suicide-by-cop. He'd been counting on it. Wanted it. And that was another thing he had to keep hidden now. Lewis knew the secret terror the Unit Chief kept under strict control. So Hotch had wanted him dead.

Lewis knew it. Knew how much the Unit Chief wanted to be sole guardian of his own terror. He knew that and the thing Hotch really feared. Lewis carried knowledge of the worst of Aaron Hotchner away with him. Laughing all the way.

Hotch stared straight ahead. No point in covering his face. He couldn't hide from himself now. He'd wanted a man to die because he didn't want anyone knowing the soft, yellow spot of cowardice deep in his own soul. He was scared. Not of his team dying. Nothing so honorable.

And not that he might have shot one of them himself. Again, nothing so altruistic.

What terrified Hotch was the _way_ they'd been shot. _Where_ they'd been shot. In the neck. Each and every one.

Just the way Reid had been so many months ago when they'd encountered a nest of corruption worming its way through a Texas town's law enforcement. Hotch hadn't told anyone how deeply the sight of his youngest agent's blood, pumping out of his nicked jugular had affected him.

He hadn't let anyone know how his heart sped up, slamming against his ribs for days afterward whenever he saw Reid's neck swathed in gauze and surgical tape.

Every time since then, when Hotch had strapped on his flak vest, he'd felt the naked vulnerability of his neck poking out, beckoning for a bullet.

And because he was afraid for himself more than for his team…and because there was someone smirking in jail who knew it, too…Hotch felt like a coward.

For the first time in his life. Openly, horribly…a coward.

And he couldn't tell Dave. And he couldn't bury it back down inside.

And he couldn't live with it…


	2. Slice

"Damn it, Aaron. Talk to me!" Rossi spat the words in his face.

"Or, if not me…then someone! Anyone! But get whatever's inside there…" He pushed a finger with painful force against Hotch's forehead. "…get…it…out!"

It was too much…too much…too much all at once! Hotch's brain wanted to skitter away and hide under something. One of the emergency vehicles. One of the blankets stacked in the ambulance. A cabbage leaf. Anything! Just hide…hide…hide!

But Rossi had hold of his shoulders. A firm grip that would never relent. Would hold him squarely under the spotlight of examination while he squirmed and squirmed and couldn't escape.

"Talk, Aaron! NOW!"

All that emerged from Hotch's throat was a strangled whimper.

AND THAT WAS WORSE THAN ANYTHING! It was the sound of a throat that had been ripped open at the side! A neck that was spurting hot blood into the uncaring air! So warm with his body's departing life that it would steam for a moment! Send fragile, lovely swirls of vapor into the night sky, carrying his soul up with it.

He couldn't breathe! It was happening!

Is this what death is like?! _Yes_…Peter Lewis whispered into his ear. _This is what __**your**__ death is like. Feel the liquid racing down your neck, your shoulder, your chest. Pooling in your clavicle, pooling under your feet._

He could feel Lewis's moist breath tickling the tiny hairs inside his ear.

"HOTCH!" Rossi's fingers dug into him, jolting him back into his body.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

From a distance, the team watched their leader melt down.

"Jesus Christ. What did they do to him?"

"There wasn't that much time. It didn't take us that long to get here."

"But look at him."

"Jesus Christ…"

"It's the drug. It punched a hole in his reality and dragged him right through it into the unsub's world."

"That doesn't sound very scientific, Spence."

"It doesn't feel very scientific to Hotch. It's still in his system. He's fighting it, but…"

"What? But what?"

"We already know it's a modified hallucinogen. Users' brains can develop highly individualized reactions. Like LSD in the 60s."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning sometimes permanent alterations occur. On a cellular level." Reid could feel the eyes locked on him, building their own nightmare scenarios.

He was sorry he couldn't offer any better comfort than avoiding the phrase 'brain damaged.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi wasn't getting anywhere.

Bullying didn't work. Maybe some other tactic.

He cradled Hotch's face between his palms, forcing the man's wet, brown eyes to look at him.

"Alright, Aaron. Alright. You're safe. No one will hurt you here. I won't let them. Don't look away! Stay with me. C'mon, keep looking at me." When Dave was sure he had the Unit Chief's attention, he lowered his voice, the badgering quality gone. "Alright, Aaron. You opened the door. You went in. What happened next? Start there."

Hotch swallowed so hard, Rossi could feel the vibration through his hands, his fingers.

_I know what happened. I saw it. He __**wanted**__ me to see it…she said so…_

Trauma was blurring the edges, but the central image, her words, were clear. Would remain sharp and crystalline 'til the end of his days.

The woman waiting for him. Because she'd been told to. Because it was all for him. Theatre of Blood. Audience of One.

"In here, Aaron…In here…" The manic light in her eyes. The knife in her hand. Her last words… "He _wants_ you to see this."

And then the slice.

And the woman's life ran out of her neck…her neck…her neck…

_And the dish ran away with the spoooooon…_

And Hotch's mind skittered into a far, dark corner where it could gibber all alone.


	3. Puzzle

"We could take him in for observation."

The med-tech had been watching Rossi's futile efforts. And something in the injured man's eyes made the EMT think this guy would be a candidate for mental evaluation if ever there was one.

"No. I've got him." Dave wouldn't give up. Something told him if he did, Hotch's mind would run for cover. And the man was good at hiding. Aaron might never find his balance again if he got the chance to run. He'd just keep on going until he either found a bolt-hole they could never pry him out of, or he'd run clean off the edges of the earth. The image of an ancient map flitted across Rossi's mind. _There be monsters here…_

He glanced up at the med-tech. "Do you think you can give him something to, you know, take the edge off?"

"Oh, Jeeeez…I dunno." The EMT came closer, bending to look into the bleak, brown eyes. "I don't wanna give him anything on top of whatever's already in him, you know?" He'd expected disappointment or an argument, but the older agent looked at him with fresh hope.

"You mean it hasn't worn off yet? He's still under the influence?"

"Little bit, maybe."

"But he's out of danger physically, right?"

"We wouldn't let him go if we thought otherwise."

Rossi resumed staring into Hotch's troubled eyes.

The EMT watched for a moment. "Like I said, we can take him in, if you're worried."

"No. I'll take care of him." _And I'm so far past worried you wouldn't understand._ "C'mon, Hotch. You're coming home with me."

The dark eyes filled with tears that never quite spilled over. "He made me see things, Dave. He made me see things."

It was the only full sentence Hotch seemed capable of. It tore at Rossi's heart. Until he could make Aaron say what those things he saw were, Peter Lewis would remain crouched in his mind like an infection.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm taking him with me." Rossi's statement to the team wasn't open for debate.

All eyes were fixed on their boss where he sat on the ambulance's tailgate, leaning over as though fighting off light-headedness. Or waiting to vomit.

Reid's voice was thoughtful, almost wistful. "The mind tries to clear itself out during sleep. Tries to organize things into manageable bytes. That's why there's that old saying about 'sleeping on' things. It's a healing process. And that's also why people who're grieving sleep more than usual. It heals…Sleep will help him heal…"

"I hope you're right, Reid. Whatever's inside him needs to find a way out." Rossi sighed. "I'll let you guys know how he is in the morning."

"Can we say goodnight to him?"

"Sure. Don't see why not."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch sensed them coming toward him and braced himself.

He didn't want to look at them, but he could tell who was who by their touch, by their voices. Hands lingered on his shoulders and back. J.J. and Kate patted and stroked. The men were a little rougher in demonstrating their concern. It wasn't until Reid's long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist, squeezing a message of support, that Hotch couldn't stop himself from looking up.

His eyes fastened on Spencer's neck. The scar. So small for such a serious wound. Not many people would notice it.

But the strobing light of emergency response vehicles seemed to focus on it.

Lewis's laughter rode the lurid beams as they flashed. _Look, Aaron…look…Have you ever asked him what it felt like? Imagine. Getting shot in the neck. Imagine…_

With a strangled cry, Hotch pulled out of Reid's grip. He could feel the hot life pulsing out of his own veins. Just two inches below the ear. Just under the jawline. Unstoppable. Unspeakable.

"NOOOO!" He bent double, wrapping his arms around and over his head. But it wouldn't stop the flow.

_Did you ever ask him if it scabbed over? Did it itch? Did he want to scratch…Scratch…SCRATCH it? Was it a problem shaving? Did the razor scratch…Scratch…SCRATCH it?_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What did _**I**_ do?!" Reid stumbled backwards.

"It's not you, Spence."

"Yeah, Pretty Boy. You said it yourself. The drug's still got him. 'S not you."

But Reid wasn't buying it. Because every now and then, one of Hotch's terrified eyes would peek out, rolling and white-rimmed. And it would find him. Fix on him. Not quite looking at his face, though. But staring, transfixed by…something.

As Rossi took their Unit Chief away, an arm around his shoulders, pulling him along, that terrified eye still managed to crane around and strain around until it found Reid.

It was a puzzle.

One that Reid took very personally.

One that hurt his gentle heart.

He sighed, watching Rossi settle Hotch into the car he'd driven here all alone, without backup. He wanted to believe his own words about the restorative properties of sleep. But there was one thing Reid's phenomenal brain couldn't do. It couldn't lie to itself.

And it was all too aware that although sleep could bring healing…

…it could also bring monsters.


	4. Shower

"Here ya go, Aaron. That's a good boy."

Rossi couldn't help treating Hotch like a child. There was something so needy in the man's eyes. So tragically vulnerable. It demanded someone strong wrap it up and keep it safe until it could walk on its own once more.

Dave kept an arm around Aaron's waist as he maneuvered him up the steps and into the foyer of his mansion, murmuring soft encouragement all the way.

"You go on up and take a shower. There's gotta be residue from that spray canister we found. Don't want it on your skin any longer than absolutely necessary." _And maybe that's why you're acting the way you are. It's still seeping into you._ "And I need to bag your clothes as evidence. You know…just in case." Rossi gave the quiet man beside him a gentle jostle before releasing him. "I'll bring your go-bag up. You gonna be okay on your own for a little bit?"

Hotch nodded, eyes downcast. He'd begun shivering; a development that Rossi found disturbing.

"Okay. Go on up. That's a good boy. Just drop your clothes on the floor. I'll come get them."

He watched Hotch pull himself up the sweeping staircase step by step, looking distracted. Preoccupied with some other reality. A customized one from the mind of Peter Lewis. When it looked as though he'd keep on until he reached the top, Dave hurried back out to the car to retrieve his friend's bag.

He returned just in time to hear the upstairs bathroom door close. A few minutes later, the shower came on. Rossi breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't much, but if Hotch could take care of himself even that much, it was an improvement over how they'd found him.

Rossi closed his eyes and tried to shake off his own vision of that moment. He'd been running his hands over Hotch's body, searching for wounds and injuries that might demand immediate treatment. But the entire time, the younger man's eyes had been fixed on him, pleading with a blatant desperation new to them both. _He made me see things, Dave. He made me __**see**__ things._

Sighing, Rossi trudged up to the bedroom next to his. He wanted to keep Aaron close. He set the go-bag on the bed and opened it, looking for the Unit Chief's version of sleepwear. _Sweats. It's either sweats or boxers and a t-shirt. _Based on how Hotch had been shivering, Rossi chose the sweats.

He moved toward the bathroom, feeling in his pocket for the ever-present evidence bags and gloves. His fingers touched Aaron's gun. The one he'd pushed into the older man's hands with inexplicable urgency. Frowning, Rossi pulled the weapon out and examined it. _This is part of it. Part of what he needs to get out. Part of what's preying on him._ He hefted the gun, considering its solid, dependable presence. Hotch was good with guns. Phenomenal in fact. Had a talent for them. But something had made Aaron push what was almost an extension of his own hand away as though it were possessed.

Dave slipped the gun back in his pocket. _I don't care how much you squirm and shrink, Aaron. You. Are. Going. To. Talk._

He tapped on the bathroom door. "Aaron? I'm coming in." No response. Rossi hadn't expected one. He opened the door, releasing a cloud of steam. He bent to collect the discarded garments lumped on the floor.

"I brought you some sweats. I put your stuff in the room next to mine. I'm gonna…" Dave stopped, frowning.

Something wasn't right.

Not the lack of response; talking seemed to be an issue with the Unit Chief at the moment. Something else. _The water. It changes sound when you're showering. As a body moves in and out of the stream, it changes sound._

What Rossi heard was a steady, monotonous cadence. _Not right._

"Aaron? You okay?"

Heart tripping into overtime, Dave hooked two fingers around the edge of the shower curtain. He pulled it back, eyes going to mid-range where one would expect to see someone of adult height standing. Then they dropped lower…lower.

Naked, Hotch was sitting in a far corner, back braced against the tiled wall. Knees drawn up. Arms circling them. Making himself as small as possible. Eyes closed, he held his face up to the unrelenting spray.

"Aaron?" The only way Rossi could tell Hotch was crying was because he could see every muscle, every small contraction and ripple of silent grief. The water washed the tears away before they fell. A liquid form of denial. _I'm not really crying. You can't see tears, so I'm not really sobbing myself sick._

"Aaron? Do you want me to come in after you?"

One shake of the head, dark hair dripping.

Rossi's voice was so soft, so gentle. "Tell me what you want me to do, Aaron."

Hotch bent his neck, lowering his forehead to his knees, huddling in on himself. His words were muffled.

"I tried to fight him, Dave. I tried so _hard_."

"I know you did."

"Didn't matter. He beat me. I couldn't stop any of it."

"Sometimes we can't. But he didn't win, Aaron. We got him." _Tread carefully here!_ "Sometimes we pay a steep price for it, but you did your job. He won't be able to hurt anyone ever again. You were the last. The only way he wins now is if you let him." Rossi could sense the edge in that antique world map coming closer; the monsters circling. "You need to fight a little bit longer, and then he'll have lost everything. There'll be nothing left of him." _C'mon, Hotch. Take a step away from where the world falls off, from the things with scales and big teeth..._

"H-How?"

"Talk to me. Just like this. We'll sit down together and I'll help you fight him. You won't be doing it alone. Talk to me. That's all. Can you do that? Will you try now?" Rossi held his breath, waiting.

Hotch's chest and ribs heaved with a painfully deep, shuddering sigh. He raised his face, but this time it was toward Dave more than toward the punishing jets of water.

"Okay."

Rossi hid his elation. _No sudden moves. Nice and calm._ "Good. Now, stand up and let's get you dry and dressed. Then we'll sit down and we'll fight him. Together. Side by side."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The entire team had been subdued, worried on their leader's behalf. They'd separated with promises to touch bases tomorrow.

Reid went home to his apartment.

He turned off all the lights, pulled a chair up to the window that looked out over the street and sat down. He replayed Hotch's reactions. He replayed his teammates' assurances that they were attributable to the tail-end tendrils of psychotropic drugs wrapping around their Unit Chief's brain.

_But they can't be sure of that._

In fact, there was only one thing of which Dr. Spencer Reid _was_ sure. And that was that neither Rossi nor Hotch would be sleeping that night.

Lips setting in a line of grim determination, Reid slipped on a jacket. He wrapped a scarf around his neck against the chill air. It was a gift from his mother. She'd made it in imitation of one Dr. Who wore. But the color was different.

That's where her own fantasies had taken over. She'd told her son that it was a color of power. A color that would scare off evil emanations and protect him from villains.

So Spencer wrapped the blood-red scarf around his neck, and went off to see if he could help Hotch and Rossi.


	5. Second Thoughts

Hotch toweled himself off while Rossi finished disposing of the clothes he'd been wearing.

Dave took the evidence bags downstairs and stashed them in a kitchen cupboard, giving his dog, Mudgie, an admonitory look in passing. _Trust me, old friend, this is not chew-toy appropriate._

He wondered if he'd be able to get any food into Hotch. It didn't seem likely with the emotional turmoil that was raging through the poor man, but Rossi had to give it a try. Gourmet that he was, he still kept a supply of quick-and-easy items on hand for the times he'd drag in the door after a particularly grueling case with barely enough energy to feed Mudge and fall into a tumbler of Scotch.

Standing in front of a cupboard stacked with cans of soup, Rossi surveyed the selection. He felt a warm, furry body press up against his leg. Heard the thump of a beloved tail beating against the floor. Without looking, he dropped one hand to ruffle the faithful ears that had been receptacles for so many of his words on lonely nights. "What'cha think, Mudge? Chicken broth or can the boy stomach some noodles?"

Finally, Dave looked down at the warm compassion and simple, joyful love shining in his pet's brown eyes. He couldn't help comparing them to the eyes of his other best friend. The one upstairs. The one whose eyes broadcast tragedy, fear and a desperate need for help. He gave Mudgie a thoughtful look. Catching the long muzzle in the palm of his hand, Rossi felt the first stirrings of a vague hope. "Hey, boy. If you're not busy tonight, you wanna hang out with me and Aaron?"

A tail thumped fond acceptance.

Dave put a mug of chicken noodle soup in the microwave and went to check on Hotch.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch felt as though his limbs were encased in lead.

He had no energy. And now that he'd committed himself to it, he felt increasingly reluctant about talking to Rossi.

He knew Dave. The man wouldn't tolerate evasion. He'd pursue Hotch with diligence and determination for as long as he thought it might help. Such devotion was admirable. It was also scary when every cell of your body was screaming at you to run from the act of admitting your own cowardice. In Hotch's drug-addled perceptions, such an admission would change his life forever. It would change how Rossi saw him. It would strip away all pretensions to leadership. It would undermine him in the eyes of his team. In the eyes of his son. Because when you were a coward, eventually your true nature would out. _And someday Jack will realize…_

The thought of falling from the pedestal on which Jack had placed him, his super-hero cape turned to filthy rags, hurt the most.

Something in the back of his mind was beating, pounding, trying to get his attention. It was an odd sensation. Whatever it was, it was blocked from coming fully into the light. It couldn't get past the blind terror that reared up every time he saw arteries bursting…light fading from eyes…bodies falling like string-cut marionettes. The only thing allowed into the foreground was fear and self-loathing.

Hotch wasn't focused enough or strong enough to realize the raging thing just beyond the boundaries of conscious thought wanted to scream at him that _everyone_ was afraid of something! _Everyone_!

But all it was doing was making Hotch more confused, more emotionally on edge. He squeezed his eyes shut and savored his own failure, unaware that the internal, taunting voice wasn't his. It was Peter Lewis's.

_When you die, you'll leave behind nothing but disappointment and disgust. Contempt. Revulsion. And all you'll take with you are visions of exploding jugulars._ Hotch felt the sob building in the back of his throat. He fought it. Hated himself for being too weak to keep it at bay.

It burst forth just as Rossi reached the bathroom door.

Hotch hated himself even more for wanting the strong hands that took his shoulders and turned him around to never let go. Dave's voice was low and kind and a lifeline…

"Aaron, listen to me. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, you have to remind yourself that you've been drugged and manipulated by an expert. Things will get clearer and you _will_ feel better. And the first step is to open up and let out the things Lewis placed in your mind. You're not the best judge of what's good for you right now. So I'm asking you to trust me more than you ever have. Can you do that?"

Hotch couldn't speak. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, a primal wail of misery would escape. He nodded instead.

The part of his self-awareness that would have acknowledged that simple gesture as an act of bravery…couldn't. It remained in its cage, severed from the rest of Hotch's brain; subservient to the craven identity Lewis had fashioned and left in its place.

Rossi could feel tremors running through his friend. He pulled the shivering body a little closer. When he met with no resistance, he went for a full-on hug, holding Aaron against his chest. It was automatic for Rossi to press Hotch's head down, encouraging him to burrow into the angle between shoulder and neck as he tried to transfer his own warmth and strength into the younger man by virtue of sheer proximity.

He had no idea why coming into contact with his neck made Hotch struggle backward, emitting an animal sound of terror.

It was all Rossi could to do hold on as he cursed Peter Lewis's soul with eternal damnation.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid pulled into Rossi's immaculately landscaped driveway, cut the engine, and stared at the imposing, porticoed façade.

He had reservations about dropping by unannounced now that he was here. Being Reid, he didn't just have second thoughts; his agile mind spawned dozens.

_I'm intruding…But we're a team and this is a team matter, not just a friendship thing between Hotch and Rossi._

_I haven't been invited and Rossi likes to keep his home separate, inviolate from his work…But I might be able to help, and if he asks me to leave, I will._

_They might be in the middle of something, like a cognitive interview…So knock softly, don't use the doorbell, and if no one answers…_

_Oh, shut up, Spencer! Just go offer to do whatever you can to help. _

He got out of the car. As he walked toward the elaborately carved front door, he saw lights switch on downstairs. _That's the living room. If they're in there and they're busy, I can just take a quick peek through the window. Then I'll know if I'm interrupting anything._

Reid padded toward the front of the house, his feet clad in mismatched socks and sneakers making little to no noise. He edged through some shrubbery, careful to keep his knitted scarf from snagging.

He wasn't really trying to hide. He only wanted to be considerate.

But once he'd looked through the window, Reid _really_ wished, with all his heart, that he'd gone to the door instead.


	6. Vision Echo

Desperate to quiet Hotch's struggles, Rossi forcibly turned him 180 degrees.

_I hope he doesn't construe this as some kind of attack._ Dave didn't have time to think of much else. He pulled Hotch back into a hug, but this time pressing the younger man's back to him. He wrapped his arms around Aaron, putting him into a chest lock. Rossi grasped his own wrists and tried not to hurt the shivering body in his hold.

He kept his voice low, almost crooning. "Shhhhh…Shhhhh…c'mon, Aaron...calm down…breathe…nothing can hurt you…c'mon…breathe…breathe…" Hotch's struggles lessened. "Atta boy…good boy…calm down…that's right…"

When the outburst had lessened to sporadic shuddering and an occasional, involuntary whimper, Rossi loosened his hold. "Lord in heaven, Aaron. What _was_ that?" He turned Hotch so they could face each other again, but held him far enough away to be able to observe the man's expression. For someone who specialized in stoic, he had an unexpectedly mobile face. Dave read embarrassment, shame, confusion, but most of all…terror.

Loathe to try another possibly ill-fated hug, Rossi opted for guiding his friend with one arm around his quaking shoulders and the other hand in the center of his chest. It was a way of controlling and directing…but also one that allowed Dave to monitor the Unit Chief's rapid heartbeat and shallow respiration.

He was pleased that both seemed to level out as they made their slow way downstairs.

Hotch kept his head lowered and avoided eye contact; signs of shame. Rossi let him get away with it until they were in the kitchen. The whole situation was undefined, worrisome. Dave didn't know what was likely to upset Hotch. Every move was a risk. But there was one that the older man's heart compelled him to do.

Pushing Aaron down into a chair at the small, kitchen table, Rossi took his friend's face between his palms. His gut clenched in sympathy when he still couldn't coax eye contact. As gently as a falling leaf, Dave brushed a kiss across Hotch's forehead. When the dark eyes remained downcast, Rossi didn't push, but he kept hold of the narrow face drenched in misery. "We'll figure this out, Aaron. Together…like I promised."

When Hotch moved, Rossi released him, letting the younger man bury his face in his own hands. "How?" The single, muffled word held a world of despair.

"Talking is the key, Aaron. That's why it's so hard for you to do it right now. That's why you _have_ to." Dave counted it a victory when Hotch's shoulders heaved with a sigh of resignation…but no objection was voiced.

"Okay, then." Rossi retrieved the chicken noodle soup from the microwave, using it as an excuse to pull Hotch's hands from his face so he could press the warm mug into them.

"I'm not really hungry, Dave."

"That's alright. You can use it as a hand-warmer." He turned, looking for Mudgie; found him lying under the table, keeping watch for stray crumbs or other food-malfunctions with a hopeful eye. "C'mon, boy. Let's take this into the living room."

Despite the troubling circumstances, Rossi hid a smile as both dog and Unit Chief lurched to their feet, ready to obey. He cupped Hotch's elbow, providing gentle guidance to the living room couch that, during daylight hours, commanded a restful view of finely-maintained landscaping. At night, only a portion of the verdant greenery was visible thanks to a few strategically-placed miniature floodlights.

"Get comfortable, Aaron. We're not leaving here until you tell me what happened…what you saw." _And maybe __**still**__ see…_

He settled Hotch in the center of the couch, coffee table in front of him to accommodate the mug of soup. With the ease of long association, Rossi motioned Mudgie to take up a position at Hotch's side. Dave took the other, effectively bracketing him in.

_No place to run, my friend. You're here for the duration. Now, let's do this._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch took refuge in sipping the soup he didn't want. But it only delayed the inevitable.

His stomach began to knot with the knowledge that sooner or later he'd have to describe the visions. Sooner or later he'd have to admit why they terrified him. The selfish, cowardly reason why.

Hotch closed his eyes, the warm mug resting against the center of his chest; its heat a small comfort in an otherwise bleak world.

"C'mon, Aaron. Let it out." Gently said, but the words were like blades, presaging an ugly dissection. Rossi leaned, giving Hotch's shoulder a companionable nudge.

On his other side, Aaron felt the large, nonjudgmental presence of Mudgie, who was also leaning close. He suspected it had more to do with the contents of his mug than of his mind. Still, he was beginning to understand why animals were used in providing therapy to trauma victims. When the dog pressed closer, muzzle seeking out the tempting aroma wafting from the cup, Hotch shifted slightly, pressing back. Mudgie's solid warmth didn't give way.

_That's why they're so valuable. Their support is unconditional. You don't have to worry about them turning on you when they realize they're snuggling a despicable worm._

Relaxing into the stolid acceptance of Rossi's pet, Hotch was unprepared for the low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the dog's deep chest. Confused and only too willing to believe that, with the almost occult perception animal's seemed to possess, Mudgie had divined the true inner nature of the man beside him, Hotch flinched.

"Mudge!" Rossi reprimanded his dog, surprised that such an uncivil noise would emanate from such a normally complacent companion.

Then, it all seemed to happen with the slow motion of nightmare.

Both Hotch and Rossi realized the dog's focus wasn't on the scent of savory soup. Growl deepening, lips lifting to display impressive canines, Mudgie glared toward one side of the large, picture window gracing the wall before them.

"What the…?" Rossi squinted past the reflection; saw Reid looking into the room, large, amber eyes filled with innocent concern. Brows rising in a silent request to either be allowed entrance, or sent away.

Hotch saw only the echo of his dread.

The pale, disembodied head of his youngest teammate, eerily lit by the landscape lighting…a swathe of crimson flowing from his neck. A slight breeze making the redness undulate like a bloody, endless, accusing torrent…

With a guttural cry, Hotch bent and emptied his stomach of the few sips of soup he'd managed to take.


	7. Genius vs Genius

Spencer's heart didn't break. But it did sink several feet into the ground.

He watched as Rossi's elegantly appointed living room became the setting for Hotch's humiliation. And this time there was no way anyone could talk Reid into thinking his leader's reaction wasn't personal. _He looked straight at me! And then he threw up. I made Hotch sick._

Hanging his head, the young genius was about to turn away when something hit the window, startling him. He looked up to see Mudgie stretched upright, paws planted against the thermal pane of glass. The dog glared, but at least he was no longer snarling. Still, it was an inhospitable exhibition.

Shoulders hunched, posture signaling defeat, Spencer headed back toward his car. He'd been prepared to admit that maybe he couldn't help, but he'd never suspected the mere fact of his presence would make things worse.

Halfway down the drive, he heard the ponderous sound of Rossi's front door opening. _Great. They'll probably sic the dog on me…For Hotch's protection…_

"Reid! Hey! Where do you think you're going?! Get back here!"

With slow reluctant movements Spencer turned. Rossi was standing in a rectangle of golden light spilling out from the doorway. Mudgie was at his side, alert, but showing no overt signs of aggression. Actually, the dog's tail was sketching a tentative arc from side to side. A hopeful portent.

"Don't make me stand here all night, kid. Come on back!"

Cautious, Reid came closer. "Are you sure?" He dropped his eyes to his sneakers, finding it easier to broach unhappy subject matter to their scuffed canvas than Rossi's questioning regard. "I made Hotch sick, Rossi. You saw how he reacted to me at the crime scene. And now he threw up just from looking at me."

Dave puffed out a long, very audible sigh. "Kid, I would have expected more from you, of all people."

"W-What? Why?"

"Because the fabulous mind of Spencer Reid should be able to look past the obvious and detect all kinds of alternatives lurking around every corner."

Rossi watched the young doctor's face. You could always tell Reid's emotional process. He was the opposite of Hotch in that respect. _Well, sure, Aaron's been knocked off his game, so his feelings are flying around with unaccustomed freedom right now, but Reid? All you have to do is watch Reid's mouth._

Sure enough, Spencer's lips crumpled and twisted, chewed and quivered, giving away all his insecurities and a good portion of his fears. It never ceased to amaze his teammates that someone so gifted should be so unaware of his superiority; viewed it, in fact, as something to be hidden and downplayed. The truth was, Reid was never sure of his welcome, no matter where he went or with whom. So the visible proof of that as shown by Hotch's behavior, yanked every painful string in the genius's lonely heart.

Rossi's own lips compressed into a line of compassion. "Hey…C'mon in, kid." He tilted his head, inviting this nervous, young man to step over the threshold.

"Okay. Thanks. But…but maybe I shouldn't go near Hotch? I wanted to come over and see if there was anything I could do to help. Maybe it'd be better if I stayed out of sight."

"Well, let's find out." Rossi took the choice away from Reid by virtue of a firm, but welcoming hand on his back, ushering the reluctant doctor into the foyer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Gimme your coat."

Endeavoring to be a congenial host, Rossi divested Reid of his jacket and the deep crimson scarf, consigning both to an antique coatrack replete with carved curlicues and clawed feet.

"Wait here a minute." Dave went to the kitchen to gather paper towels, giving silent thanks that Hotch hadn't thrown up much. Still, that he'd done so at all was troublesome. When he returned, he motioned Reid to follow him into the living room. The young doctor lagged behind, using Rossi as a shield; ready to duck away if his boss showed signs of distress.

Worried almost to sickness himself that he would.

"Hotch, it's just Reid. See?" Ignoring the Unit Chief's anxious stare, Rossi busied himself with cleanup. "I gotta say, though, kid, popping up at the window in the dead of night is a strange way to drop in for a visit. What were you thinking?"

Spencer realized the senior agent was keeping up an inconsequential line of chatter, giving Hotch time to examine his own reactions. He could almost hear Dave's thoughts…_C'mon, Reid. Play along…_

"I, uh…I figured you guys would be up and…and I was worried…Thought maybe I could help…" He shrugged, eyes dropping, avoiding his leader's intense regard. "…maybe…you know…help…somehow…" Reid ended on a mumble, addressing his sneakers once again.

Rossi finished his task. "I'm gonna go throw this away…" He hefted the handful of crumpled paper towels. "Be right back." _And maybe if I leave you two alone with each other, you'll figure this mess out._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch shivered.

He couldn't pry his eyes from Reid. The vision in the window had been dredged straight from the pits of his own personal Hell. But the man wilting before him, uncomfortable and shy, could have sported angel's wings. The leader inside the Unit Chief screamed at him to _say_ something. His teammate, his friend…a fine and gentle soul…was in need.

_Coward! Coward!_ The winding, twisted work of Peter Lewis prevented Hotch from seeing how selfless and courageous it was when he pushed past his terror, even if it was only to say…

"R-Reid…I…Reid…"

"S'okay, Hotch." Still communing with his shoes… "Rossi made me come in. But I'll leave. Don't worry."

The caged creature in the back of Hotch's mind battered itself against the bars. Useless. There was some key to what locked it in that hadn't been found yet. All its struggling did was raise Aaron's anxiety level; something that served to harden the bars of its cage even more.

"No…Reid!" The tone of pleading desperation in the Unit Chief's voice made Spencer look up. Hotch's shaking hand rose, traced a vague line from one side of his throat to his collarbone. "I…saw…?" The rest of what he might have said was lost, aborted by rising waves of fear that swamped his heart and lungs, increasing the action of both.

Reid stared, mobile lips twisting, broadcasting his concern. But, as always, his brain was running equations in the background. _He's trying to tell me something, but he's blocked._ His mouth settled in a sad, little moue. _And my being here is making it worse._

"I'm sorry, Hotch. I guess it's not the smartest move in the world to look through someone's windows in the middle of the night. I didn't want to interrupt. Guess I did, though. I'm sorry I scared you." Before Aaron could respond, Reid turned and made his way back to the foyer, intending to gather his jacket and scarf…and leave.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From the kitchen Rossi couldn't pick out individual words. All he could hear was the murmur of voices.

He didn't want to admit it to Reid's face, but he was beginning to agree that something about the young genius was disturbing Hotch, elevating unease to extreme anxiety. _It might be a cruel experiment, but maybe forcing them together will give us something to work with. I just hope it doesn't do more harm…to either of them._

When he heard hesitant footsteps out in the foyer, he hurried to intercept whichever one was about to run.

"Reid! Wait."

"Why?" Spencer tried to cover his hurt by immersing himself in the process of donning his outerwear. "He can't stand to be around me, and he can't tell me why."

"Which is exactly why I want you to stay." Rossi caught the back of Reid's jacket, easing it back off his narrow shoulders. "I'm glad you came. I need you here."

The young doctor was no more able to abandon a teammate in need, than was Hotch. His posture slumped, the slender body caving in on itself. "I don't see what good I can do. Something's…I dunno…_blocking_ him. And I make it worse." He gave Rossi a miserable look. "Maybe it'll get better in time. Maybe, like I said before, sleep'll sort some of it out."

"I don't believe that and neither do you." Dave's voice was firm and steady. "I think whatever was done to Hotch is insidious. It'll burrow deeper if we don't fight it here and now. I think Peter Lewis was a genius, like you. I'm going to get that man in there to talk and it would help if I had a genius backing me up."

"He can hardly get two words out around me!"

"That's alright." Rossi held the younger man's troubled gaze. "You can stay out of sight. He doesn't even have to know you're here. But listen. Listen to every word and see if you can figure out where the connection, or maybe the _dis_connect, is. Find Lewis's footprint and follow it, Reid…For Hotch."

Spencer was very still for a few beats. He hated this unsub. But it was his love for Hotch that won the day.

"Okay. I'll stay."


	8. Tangled

Having secured Reid's aid, Rossi hurried to lock it down and get back to Hotch.

He darted back into the kitchen, returning with one of the bentwood chairs that normally lived around his kitchen table. Moving on silent feet, he placed it just to one side of the entrance to the living room. He whispered last instructions to Reid.

"Here ya go. Sit. You should be able to hear everything."

"Are you gonna tell Hotch I left?" In his secret heart, the one that ached every time someone snubbed him, Spencer dreaded hearing his leader say how glad he was that his youngest agent was gone from the premises. And yet, a part of Reid looked forward to it; would hold it and keep it embalmed in his perfect memory to take out and examine from time to time as proof of his freakishness.

Rossi, seasoned profiler that he was, suspected as much and headed it off before any unwitting comment Hotch might make while he wasn't himself could be added to the young doctor's arsenal of self-criticism. "No. I'm not gonna lie to him and then turn around and ask him to do just the opposite…open himself up and let us shine a spotlight on his damage." _And I'm not going to risk him saying something spawned by the unsub that'll stick with __**you**__ and hurt you the way Aaron's hurting right now. It'd be like giving Lewis a second target._ "Just be an unobtrusive presence, okay?"

"Sure. For Hotch. Sure…" Sighing, Reid took his seat.

"Atta boy." Rossi gave his shoulder a squeeze that was at once grateful and reassuring. "C'mon, Mudge. Let's get back to work."

Dog and master returned to the trembling man on the living room couch, while Spencer leaned forward, ears tuned for every word Hotch might say, hoping that one of them would provide a clue to Peter Lewis's twisted work.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, that was an interesting interlude." Rossi plopped down, taking his place at Hotch's side again. Mudgie followed suit, leaning forward over Aaron's lap to inspect the chicken soup mug on the coffee table.

"Mudge…manners, please." The dog recoiled in slow motion, demonstrating his disapproval of food going to waste.

"How you doin'? Feeling okay?" Dave ran a hand over his friend's back. When Hotch leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees, and nodded, Rossi continued. "We were about to talk. So, how do you wanna do this? Cognitive interview? Word association? What?"

"Reid…"

"What about him?"

"I wanted to say I was sorry, but I…I couldn't." Hotch turned tortured eyes on the older man. "He needed to hear that and I couldn't say it."

"You can tell him later." Aaron's tragic, imploring look demanded more. "Reid's still here. I thought it would be better if he kept to himself for a bit, but he's still around. You can talk to him later. Right now, you're talking to me. Or Mudge, if you prefer."

Hotch licked dry lips. "I…I don't know." His eyes began to fill from frustration at his own ineptitude.

"Alright. Stay calm, Aaron. Take time to breath and go at your own pace." Rossi let his hand remain on the Unit Chief's back, resting with the lightest of touches between his shoulder blades. "Let's start with what we _do_ know." His voice lowered, verging on hypnotic drone. "You went to Dr. Regan's house."

Hotch blinked. His breathing roughened. "Yes. I went to her house."

"And…?" When there was no response other than increased respiration, Dave gave a gentle prompt. "Don't leap ahead. Take it step by step. And breathe. You arrived at the house. Then…?"

"I was inside."

Outside the living room door, Reid frowned and leaned closer. _When Hotch goes step by step, he doesn't leave anything out. So why is he jumping to being inside already?_

"You're inside. Then what?" Rossi kept his voice soft, coaxing.

"I…It's all confused…I don't remember."

Reid's frown deepened. _No, that's not Hotch. I've read his reports. He remembers everything. Almost like me, except he lets stuff fade in time._

Dave's gentle insistence continued. "Then skip to what you _do_ remember. You were in the house, and…?"

"And…and the doctor was there. She was…was waiting. For me." Hotch gasped, unable to keep his mind from leaping to the image of the woman gleefully slitting her own throat just…for…him. "She…she…she…" He couldn't say it. He gave Rossi one tragic glance before turning away and burying his face against Mudgie's neck.

Dave watched Aaron's shoulders shake with silent sobs and wanted to break something to relieve his own frustration. But he pulled back and took the advice he'd given, breathing slowly and evenly until the angry impulse receded. He took Hotch's shoulders, but didn't force him to abandon the furry comfort of the dog's unconditional support.

"Aaron…breathe…it's okay. We know that Dr. Regan was dead when you got there. You were too late, but that wasn't your fault. No one could have gotten there in time to…"

Hotch wrenched out of Rossi's grip, turning to stare with wide, confused eyes. "What? No! She wasn't already dead, Dave! I…I saw…I saw…" _Why can't I say it!?_ In desperation, he struggled to communicate. If he couldn't touch on the image itself, he'd try to circumvent the blockage in his mind. He'd use analogies, similes…draw connections.

Rossi was waiting, baffled and concerned; his brow furrowed.

"She _wasn't_ dead! I saw…saw…like Reid! Oh, God! Like Reid! I saw!" Hotch doubled over, arms wrapped around his midriff, trying to hold himself together.

Out in the hallway, Reid's eyes darted to the hat rack. To the flowing crimson of his scarf. His mind assembled what little Hotch had revealed and…he knew. He couldn't explain the process. It was one of those times that made him afraid of his own mind. It was like a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces rattled into place with unnatural speed, skittering to their proper positions as though some mad poltergeist with occult knowledge was orchestrating their solution.

Reid bolted from his chair.

It didn't matter if he made Hotch vomit all over Rossi's priceless Turkish rug again. If he was right, this was the key that would open the man's mind; would lift the blockage and let the rest of Peter Lewis's poison drain out.

Reid tried not to think about the fact that _**he**_ was the key. _That's why my presence is the one Hotch can't tolerate. _

_That's why what comes next is going to be so…so hard. And it's going to hurt._

_And I don't know where we'll stand after that. What if Hotch can't be around me ever again? What if…_

Spencer clamped down on thoughts that ricocheted like panicked rabbits. There was no room for that kind of speculative fear.

Because Hotch had more than enough of his own.


	9. Double Your Terror, Double Your Fun

Reid bolted from his seat.

Snatching the red scarf's trailing length off the coatrack, he crumpled it into as small a bundle as he could. He tucked the resulting wad of cloth into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling his shirt down to conceal it. _God, I hope I'm right about this!_

Heart pounding, he loped into the living room, startling Rossi and Mudge. Hotch had gone back to the position that afforded him the most concealment; bending almost double over his own thighs, face buried behind spread fingers.

Before Rossi could offer any comment or objection, Reid pushed the coffee table back, affording him sufficient room to confront Hotch directly. The mug of now-tepid soup sloshed over the rim, pooling on the table as the young agent shoved it. Priorities shifting, Mudgie abandoned his post at the Unit Chief's side, opting to follow the lure of spilled soup instead. The dog was a bit miffed when Reid pushed him aside, too.

Spencer went down on one knee squarely in front of Hotch, bringing the two men face to face. Or it would have, if Aaron hadn't been covering his. Reid gave Rossi one glance. The older man's baffled look didn't do anything to reassure Spencer that he was on the right track. But he trusted his own intellect enough to believe he was. _Besides, there's nothing else to try and it's just plain cruel to leave Hotch stranded in whatever mental playground Peter Lewis constructed._

Taking firm hold of Hotch's wrists, Reid forced them down, compelling his boss to look up…and straight into Spencer's worried, amber eyes. Aaron's own widened for a moment, then slammed shut like a child who believes the power of invisibility lies behind closed lids.

Reid would have none of it.

"Look at me, Hotch! Look at me!" He grasped the Unit Chief's shoulders, emphasizing his order with a shake. "You have to look at me!"

"Kid…" Rossi's voice had a warning tone. _Be careful where you tread. We don't know how the paths inside his mind may have been altered…or what they'll lead to…_ It was possible the unsub had set a booby-trap in Aaron's mind. And they had no idea what the trigger might be. Or the result of pulling it.

Reid didn't take his eyes off Hotch as he responded. "No, Rossi. Lewis got inside him and found his fear, but he was in a hurry. He knew his time was limited…that we were already on our way. So he didn't go as deep as he might have otherwise." The young doctor spared his older colleague a quick glance, but returned his regard to Aaron as soon as he saw dawning comprehension on Dave's face. "He went for the most recent trauma he could find…And that was me. Wasn't it, Hotch? Is that what he did? He took you back to Texas? Is that it? HOTCH, LOOK AT ME!"

Shuddering, Aaron's eyelids cracked open to the merest slits. His eyes and lips tightened, presaging tears. It was all Spencer needed. For a man like Hotch, who rode herd on his emotions, trying to keep them controlled with unrelenting diligence, the surfacing signals of stress he couldn't hold back were signposts pointing to his damage…indications that the young genius was on the right track.

Reid sent up a silent prayer to a God he sometimes questioned, but hoped was listening…

…and pulled the blood-colored scarf from where he'd hidden it.

It unfurled in all its gory splendor before Hotch's horrified eyes. Eyes that now seemed incapable of closing or looking away. Eyes that fastened on the symbol of the trauma Lewis had excavated in the short time he'd had to wander through Aaron's psyche. Questioning a drugged man. Taking him back in time, but not having the luxury of it himself to delve any deeper than a few years into the past. Finding the red-hot peak of fear in a veritable mountain range of stressful cases.

With the practiced dexterity of a magician, Reid swirled the length of fabric around his neck, keeping Hotch's face under fierce scrutiny the whole time.

"This is it, isn't it, Hotch? This is what he made you see. Over and over and over, didn't he? You said Dr. Regan was waiting for you. That she cut her own throat and bled out in from of you. But, Hotch, she was already dead before you arrived."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the background, Rossi saw the puzzle pieces Reid was working with; saw the bigger picture he was fitting them to. And recollection of a conversation he'd once had with Morgan came to him, that gave additional credence to Spencer's theory…that added another facet to Lewis's work, making it multi-dimensional. Less like a portrait of terror. More like a sculpture.

They'd been talking in front of the coffee machine not long after Rossi had come out of retirement. Derek was recounting some of their more recent cases.

They'd been in Portland, Oregon. A psychiatrist had been using people's fears to conduct his own twisted experiments. He'd literally frightened them to death with their own phobias.

Discovered at last, the unsub had fled. Morgan and Hotch had pursued him to the roof of a building. Standing on a flight of stairs slightly below him Aaron had tried to talk the man down. He'd failed. But right before he'd jumped to his death, the psychiatrist had given Hotch a final diagnosis… "…your greatest fear is that you can't save everyone…"

The Unit Chief had brushed it off, but…it was true.

Aaron blamed himself for every failure. Even when it wasn't his fault, he'd claim it. And every victim, every life ruined or lost, struck at his tender-hearted core.

"…you can't save everyone…"

Peter Lewis had combined the horror of seeing Reid shot in the neck, bleeding out on the lonely, dirty street with the phobia of a consummate leader…that he couldn't rescue all the dead and dying.

_That must be it! Reid put it all together, and that __**must**__ be it!_

He was almost right. But not quite.

And Hotch's scream of terror put an end to further speculation.


	10. Crash

"Scared… scared… scared…" After his guttural scream, Hotch uttered the words in a low moan, huddled in on himself, sounding ashamed as much as terrified.

It was tearing him apart to say it, but it was as close as he could get to explaining what was wrong. The small animal caged at the back of his brain threw itself forward again and again, unable to win through, but willing to die in the effort.

"I know, I know… I'm scared, too!" Reid hoped hearing that he wasn't alone in his terror would ease enough of the constraints Lewis had imposed on Hotch, to allow the man to break free once and for all.

It wasn't just a ploy, though. Spencer was being honest. Underneath the scintillating intellect, he was surprisingly gullible. Part and parcel of that open vulnerability was his susceptibility to the workings of his own vivid imagination. His eidetic memory provided ample material for frightening creations. Nightmares were his companions on an almost nightly basis.

Now he hoped to use the disturbances in his own mind to form a safe place for Hotch to fall.

"I'm scared, too, Hotch. A lot! And I have bad dreams about stuff. You're not the only one!" He shot Rossi an imploring look.

The older agent understood. Leaning close, voice urgent and sincere, he added his own confession. "I get scared every time a case comes in, Aaron. Hell, there'd be something wrong with you if you didn't."

Hotch knotted his fists in his hair, rocking forward and back in his frustration at not being able to explain. "You don't understand. It's different…it's worse."

They were up against a mental barrier. Rossi thought it might be a good time to dive back into a blow by blow accounting of what the Unit Chief had experienced at the home of the ill-fated Dr. Regan. Hotch's words were coming more smoothly, despite his obvious upset. "Aaron, after your encounter with Regan, what happened? What do you remember next?"

Hotch kept rocking as though trying to comfort himself. "He…he came for me. And I fought, Dave!" He turned tragic eyes on Rossi. "I told you. I fought as hard as I could and…and…it didn't matter. He…_he made me see things_!" The words came in a quiet wail. A sound of hopeless despair that made Reid's breath catch and Rossi's heart stutter.

"Slow down, Aaron. He came for you. You fought. He won. What happened when Lewis won? Can you tell us?"

Hotch stopped rocking. Bent low over his knees, his fists were no longer tugging his hair. They were pressed against his ears, trying to stop an insistent, insidious voice he could still hear. "He talked to me. Wouldn't stop. On and on." There was no way to describe the torture of it to his teammates. No way to make them feel the way each word would drop into his ears like hot lead, searing and sizzling, carving a route deep into his brain.

Hotch paused. He uncoiled a little from his defensive posture. "And then you came. My team." He fixed Reid with a mournful stare. "You were the first to die. I knew you'd be the first. And you were."

Reid struggled to look past the immeasurable sadness in his leader's expression. "But I didn't die, Hotch. It was a lie. He found out about Texas and used it against you, but it wasn't real. You know that."

Aaron's eyes had gone glassy. He was seeing it all again. Speaking in a soft, horrified whisper. "I knew you were dead…would go first. And then Dave. And then Morgan." He raised one hand to the side of his neck, seeing phantom blood of phantom teammates spurt. "Shot all three of you….Dead…all dead…"

Rossi's calm voice overrode Hotch's. "But we're not dead. Peter Lewis took your worst fear and made you see it. Losing your team was just…"

"Wait." Reid interrupted. It looked as though Aaron was lost in his own imaginings; possibly not even listening anymore. "Rossi, it's not losing us that got to him."

Dave gave his young colleague a quizzical look. "Wha'd'you mean?"

"I mean sure that's something he worries about and dreads, but…don't you see? The first to go down were the males…the ones Hotch most closely identifies with." Reid's voice dropped, becoming low and confiding. "Rossi, I think Hotch is afraid for himself most of all. And I think he hates that about himself. That's what he can't climb over. That's what he can't tell us."

Rossi and Reid stared at their leader. Hotch's eyes had closed. He was trying to hide within himself again. _I can't see you, so you can't see me…I'm not here…You can't see me…I'm not here…_

His friends wouldn't let him.

"Is that it, Aaron?" Dave's voice held no judgment. "You're afraid of dying?"

The cogs of Reid's brain were spinning at warp speed. "Wait…Hotch, it's getting shot in the neck, isn't it!...That's what got to you. It's getting shot the way I did!"

Reluctance, guilt and shame colored every move the Unit Chief made. Feeling as though Lewis's hand was pulling him in the opposite direction, Hotch forced himself to look into his youngest agent's anxious eyes.

He nodded. Once.

And the barriers came crashing down.


	11. Primal

It was a terrible thing, watching a man crumble.

Especially a man you respected and even loved. Especially one as self-contained as Aaron Hotchner. Cringing in on himself, the Unit Chief couldn't stop saying the one word that was the sum total of his identity and his world now that his fear had been exposed…now that everyone would know what he was _really_ made of.

"Coward…coward…coward…coward…coward…"

He might have continued chanting the ugly sobriquet forever. Until weariness took him. Until his voice failed. Until the end of time. But as much as Hotch felt he deserved it, Rossi and Reid refused to see their leader in the false light staged by Peter Lewis.

"Aaron, _STOP IT_!" Rossi grabbed the man's hunched shoulders with savage force. "_STOP IT_! Right this minute…_STOP IT_!"

Hotch subsided into shuddering silence, but his haunted eyes and rough respiration told his teammates he was still chanting the word to himself. It had been planted by an expert. A genius.

"Reid, you know any tricks? Any quick fix? He's fighting, but this is about the most unfair battle I've ever seen. What did that bastard do to him?"

Spencer shook his head in slow disbelief. "I'm not sure. But if Hotch's trying to work his way past what Lewis did, then I have to think he'd be willing to let us help. He just doesn't know what he needs."

"Neither do we, kid."

"Lemme think…lemme think…" Reid chewed on his lips, running equations and scenarios in his mind. Discarding each one as nonviable.

_Think! The standard way to work out someone's mental problems would involve years of psychotherapy. But that's for problems that have been years in the making. This was shot into Hotch in drug form augmented with words. So…so…_ Visions of classmates he'd known who'd experimented with recreational drugs sped through Spencer's brain. He saw their buddies walking them up and down the dorm halls, trying to work off the effects. He'd had his doubts about the usefulness of such treatment at the time, but…

_So the equivalent of walking the brain up and down would be getting Hotch to…what?... follow a trail? Logic? Maybe if we can get him to focus on a series of steps leading to a logical conclusion…? OR…maybe if we can follow the trail Lewis did. There has to be a starting point. I thought it was Texas, but that was just a stepping stone. So Hotch thinks he's a coward. Is that the starting point? Can't be, or having brought it to light would have been a relief. _

Reid watched as Rossi wrapped his arms around the Unit Chief's shoulders, pulling him close, trying to soothe soul-deep wounds with surface comfort.

It was half-baked at best, but it was all Reid could come up with on the spur of the moment. The more he thought about it…which took microseconds…the more he thought reasoning with Hotch and hearing his responses would point them toward something like a light switch that the unsub had installed.

"Rossi, we have to talk to him. Or, rather, _get_ him to talk."

Dave gave a small, frustrated huff. "That's what I've been trying to do all night. But you see what it's like…Like pulling teeth just to get him to tell us what happened."

"That's it, though. None of that stuff he told us really happened. Dr. Regan didn't kill herself in front of him. Lewis set that up to hit at Hotch, to weaken his defenses so he could go deeper into worse fears."

Rossi rested his chin on top of Aaron's bent head as he snugged him even closer. "My personal opinion is that Dr. Regan doing that so close and his not being able to stop her…to save her…_is_ one of Hotch's worst fears. 'You can't save everyone…'" He murmured the last almost to himself.

"Okay, okay." Reid's brows knit in fierce concentration. "So then he accessed more than one fear in Hotch. And he wove them all together into what looks like an impenetrable tapestry. So…we know he's afraid of losing us, his team. And…" He glanced at Rossi. "…he's afraid of not being able to save everyone. And he's afraid of being shot the way I was…But…" The young genius shook his head.

"What? What are you thinking, Reid?"

"There's something else. Something that ties it all together…which means it has to be something really deep. Primal…which would mean it was something we all share…all mankind, I would think…" His voice went distant as he followed his own thoughts; trying to give words to the leaps and bounds his mind could make by assembling and interpreting millions of scattered bits of knowledge acquired over his lifetime.

Rossi knew when the moment of revelation came. Saw Reid's features slacken, his eyes focus on some distant point. Dave pulled Hotch closer yet and held his breath, waiting for this remarkable thinking machine to finish its journey and solve a human riddle.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid's brain stopped looking outward, plunging instead into his own experiences. _A primal fear so basic we all have it…linked to my getting shot…to getting shot oneself…_

And then he knew. Once again the pieces fell with a rattle, forming into a solid solution.

Reid felt the bullet once again. Felt his body lose tension; his muscles falling slack. Felt the hot gush of liquid flowing from the wound. Saw the world greying, fading, growing fuzzy. It had happened so fast he hadn't had time to dread; only time to experience the difference between vital life and approaching death. _It hadn't been so bad. I thought getting shot would be worse. But it wasn't as bad as…as being held captive by Tobias Hankel! Because that had __**hurt**__! Hitting the soles of my feet had hurt much more than being shot! With a wound that grievous, the body's own defensive mechanisms click in. The pain is muted by shock. Death isn't what's scary...It's the process of dying...the pain of it that we all dread.  
_

"Rossi, it's not fear of death. It's fear of pain!" Bending low, he tipped Hotch's chin up with gentle fingers; locked gazes with his leader's tormented eyes. "That's it, isn't it? That's why you force yourself to experience pain even when it's not necessary, because you're always proving to yourself that you can take it. When you hit your head in a car chase that time, you wouldn't even take an aspirin. You allowed the pain so you could tell yourself you were beating it. You're not masochistic. You're trying to defeat your biggest fear by exposing yourself to it. Is that it, Hotch? It's a biological directive, programmed into us to avoid pain, to be afraid of it. Is that it? You're scared of pain?"

It was like watching a balloon deflate. The sorrow and stress and struggle went out of Hotch. Something loosened inside, freeing him.

"Y-yes. Yes. Yes."

Aaron gasped out the words, feeling something dark and heavy...lift and leave. He let himself collapse within Rossi's embrace. The older agent held his friend, turning an expression of relief and gratitude on Reid.

But Spencer couldn't share it. He had a feeling the battle wasn't over…


	12. A Dark Dawn

Rossi allowed himself a moment of joy.

Closing his eyes, he rocked his best friend, murmuring encouragement and comfort. "It's all over, Aaron. You're okay. You're not a coward. You're just human. It's all over. That's my boy…" Dave tried not to notice when Hotch stiffened; a muscular protest against the older man's optimism.

Deep inside Aaron still felt scared. It was a different kind of terror. One that still might stalk him for the rest of his life. Lurking around corners. Taunting him with his own vulnerability.

It had been so _easy_ to turn him inside out. It hadn't taken much time either. Peter Lewis was the new boogeyman in town, hiding under Hotch's bed, peeping out of the closet door at night, waiting to pop out of dark corners. And because he hadn't committed suicide-by-cop, he was still Aaron's Achilles heel. Lewis might be incarcerated, but the knowledge of how to rewrite the Unit Chief of the BAU was alive and well inside him.

Hotch closed his eyes and saw the man gloating in his cell. Everyone knew jailing someone didn't stop him from contacting the outside world and finding ways to perpetuate his pet projects. Assuming he _had_ pet projects in the first place. All it would take was someone on the outside, or someone who was _getting_ out, who wanted to take a whack at the leader of the BAU.

Hotch had no shortage of enemies. It was a testament to his effectiveness and his long career. Now, his battered emotions gave free rein to his imagination. He saw Lewis's smirking face whispering, whispering, whispering in the same insidious way he'd invaded Hotch's psyche. Only this time he was giving out his recipe for mind control. A specific concoction that had worked well against the brain of one Agent Hotchner. It might have taken a genius to invent the procedure, but it wouldn't take one to follow it once it was laid out step by step. Replication required only dogged determination.

And there were plenty of potential replicators out there for Lewis to recruit.

Hotch buried his face against Rossi and let himself be held.

He had a feeling it might be the last time he felt truly safe in a world where Peter Lewis's intellect and whispering voice could reach out and scratch him at will.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Shades of pearl trailed across the sky.

"It's tomorrow." Reid stood looking out the window at the peach-and-grey clouds over Quantico. Somehow it seemed odd that time had continued to move ahead while they were engaged in battle over Hotch's mental welfare. It also seemed strangely right that there should be a break in the darkness right about now.

Regardless of underlying emotions, all three agents were exhausted.

"Thanks, Reid. Thanks for sticking with it and breaking through. I think we'll be alright now." Rossi heaved a sigh of relief, still keeping Hotch in the protective circle of one arm.

Spencer's lips twisted in telltale agitation. "I'm kind of tired. I don't think there's much more we can do here, so I'm gonna go home. Walk me out, Rossi?" It was a clumsy way of asking if they could talk in private, but Reid was too worn out to come up with a more subtle way of getting Dave out of Hotch's hearing.

"Sure…sure…" Rossi freed himself from Aaron, letting his fingers trail across the younger man's back for a moment as though assuring himself of his friend's solid presence. It was also a delaying tactic. Dave wasn't so depleted or blinded by hope that Hotch was fully recovered that he didn't know Reid had additional concerns to voice. He said nothing, however, until they were in the foyer and standing at the front door.

"Okay, kid. Spill it. What else is going on?"

Reid took a deep breath and closed his weary eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts…and worries. "I'm not sure about anything at the moment, but I keep thinking this isn't over. Like we've broken through the crust of the matter, but the evil, gooey filling is still waiting for us to taste it…you know?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Rossi couldn't help a wry smile as he shook his head. "You _must_ be tired, Reid. You're waxing positively poetic."

"Nah. I'm just hungry." Now that the immediate crisis had passed, the young genius could feel his empty stomach practically wrapping itself around his spine. "But there's more to this, Rossi. I just…I don't know exactly what, but…" He paused, scrubbing a hand over his sleep-deprived face, feeling the slight abrasiveness that told him it was past the time he normally shaved. "I'm thinking it's like PTSD. We found the 'event' that Lewis used to derail Hotch's mind, but…" He shrugged, eyes downcast. "It's like we can tell Hotch the problem and he can see and understand it, but…"

Rossi sighed. "…But in his heart, he doesn't _feel_ it. Still blames himself for not saving Dr. Regan. Still considers himself weak for being horrified at seeing you shot down in Texas. Still thinks hating pain equates with cowardice."

"Yeah." Reid stroked the blood-red scarf still twined around his neck. "We found the bomb and defused it, but it's still lodged inside him." He turned mournful eyes on Dave. "So what do we do next?"

Rossi shrugged. "We get some sleep. We refuel and regroup. And then…we take it day by day, or step by step…whichever comes first." Dave's weak grin was the kind comrades-in-arms would give each other in a foxhole as artillery cascaded around them.

_No idea if we'll all make it out alive…but I'm glad you're by my side._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid, Rossi and Hotch weren't the only ones to spend a sleepless night.

Morgan had ended the disturbing day by visiting Garcia. The tech analyst knew the bones of the situation the team had faced in Maryland, but not the visceral details. As usual, she depended on her favorite Chocolate God for those. She had curled up on her sofa and listened to Derek recount finding Hotch and a smug, leering unsub. Her eyes had filled as she pictured the scene.

"But he'll be alright, won't he? I mean, you got the guy and My Liege will be his sword-wielding, magnificent self after a little R&amp;R, won't he? Derek? He will, won't he?"

A big part of Morgan's attraction to Garcia was a need to brush up against her quixotic, unicorns-and-rainbows world. Her fanciful, colorful, light-filled perspective balanced the darkness of his own. Whenever a case's terrible tendrils twined around him, following him, it was easier to banish them after touching bases with his Baby Girl.

But this time felt different. And he couldn't lie. Not to Penelope.

"I don't know, Mama." He stared into the cup of cocoa she'd made for him. "Never seen Bossman like that before. He looked like a little kid. Defenseless. Scared. I don't know…"

"But…but that's just the drugs that sicko, evil Dr. Demento used on him, right? It'll wear off and…" She saw the bleakness in Morgan's expression and pulled herself up straighter. "It _will_ wear off, won't it? I mean that's what drugs do! They…they work through you system and then go away!"

Morgan felt terrible about not being able to reassure her.

In the end he'd left her in a way he hadn't ever before; her light diminished by his darkness. It was supposed to be the other way around.

He went home, washed up, and sat with his dog, Clooney, through the remainder of the night. He set his phone on the table before him, waiting for a decent hour so he could call Rossi and ask how Hotch was doing.

He dozed off around dawn and dreamt of Peter Lewis's boastful taunt… 'You don't know what I did to him…'

Morgan's phone jolted him awake. He saw Rossi's ID.

Before he even heard the voice on the other end, Morgan braced himself.

He knew it wouldn't be good.


	13. Detonation

"Hey, Rossi. You're up early." Morgan barely managed to quell his own yawn…or his underlying tone of concern. "How's Hotch?"

"Been up all night. We're about ready to turn in or drop in our tracks." Dave took a deep breath. "Reid came over. Scared the bejesus out of Hotch, but that turned out to be a good thing. Sort of."

"How? I thought the guy had enough scare thrown into him already to last a lifetime."

"Well…" Rossi went on to explain the activities of the night.

Morgan hung on every word, wishing he'd been present, although he had no idea how he might have made a difference. When the senior agent faltered to a stop, Derek felt the uncertain lack of resolution in the recounting. He asked much the same question Reid had. "So now what? Where do we go from here?"

Dave's exhale carried over the connection, conveying his weariness. "I don't know. I'm too tired to think right now. And Reid _did_ have a point early on about sleep helping to sort out things mental and things emotional. We'll see how Hotch is after we all get some rest."

He hung up, leaving Morgan alone with his thoughts.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The thing about Derek Morgan was that, although he was an intelligent, hardworking man, his connection to his emotions was stronger and more direct than most. Where Reid would default to a cerebral way of dealing with issues, Morgan would always be aware of the feelings underlying his mental process. Sometimes he had to make an effort to subjugate them.

Soon after the call with Rossi ended, a slow, churning anger began to smolder deep in Derek.

He couldn't get the image of Peter Lewis out of his mind. The vision of the unsub crouching in a closet, hiding like a craven coward wouldn't leave him. _And he planted the concept of cowardice in __**Hotch**__? _It was not to be borne. Morgan loved his boss like a brother. The Unit Chief was one of the few people he truly trusted. And it killed him that he hadn't been there to have his brother's back.

He wanted to twist Lewis's head off of his shoulders. He wanted to tear the smug, taunting grin he'd flashed at Hotch like a final torment, from the unsub's face. Morgan reclined on his couch, rage driving the possibility of sleep from him.

He draped an arm across Clooney's back, taking comfort from the dog's ability to hone in on his master's moods and supply the companionship that would do him the most good. Derek turned his head, connecting with his pet's wise, brown eyes.

"I wish I could give Hotch some of what I'm feeling right now, Cloon. He wouldn't be afraid. He'd rip the bastard's throat out with his bare teeth."

Clooney rested his muzzle on the couch cushion inches from Morgan's face. It was unusual for the dog to stare him down. Something inside the agent quieted. He still had the rough edges of raw anger, but his rational mind was peeping through the small space of calm that Clooney's presence made possible.

Morgan's lips began to stretch. A somewhat conditional smile appeared. It was a little malevolent around the edges.

_That's it. Hotch is as alpha as they come. One of the things I like about him. One of the reasons I'll let him lead me and feel right about it. He's got this same anger inside him. All I need to do is trigger it. I just hope I don't push the wrong buttons and make that bomb wedged in his brain detonate instead._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nurturing a grain of hope, Morgan was finally able to fall asleep. But eagerness to implement his plan woke him after only a few hours. It was enough. He was filled with energy and anticipation.

His first move was to call Garcia.

"Baby Girl! Can you tell me where they put Peter Lewis? And whether they're gonna be moving him anytime soon?"

"I…uh…ah…I…Hang on!" Distant sounds of a keyboard being pummeled drifted over the connection.

Morgan used the intervening time to brew a pot of diesel-strength coffee, and to reward Clooney for his inspirational role in their discussion, with a breakfast sausage.

Penelope was back in a breathless rush. "I…uh…P- Peter Lewis is in jail in Maryland and right now that's where they're going to keep him. W-Why? What's up, my Brown Sugar Addiction? Is My Liege alright? Has anything happened?"

"Hotch is havin' a rough time, Baby Girl. But I wanna try something." He hated sounding as though he might be brushing her off, but… "Gotta go. Wish me luck. Bossman, too."

"G-Good luck…" Garcia blinked.

She'd sent her well-wishes across an already-severed connection.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch didn't sleep so much as he succumbed to unconsciousness.

His battered psyche crawled into a crevice, curled up, and lost itself in a maze of uncertainty and questions. Nightmares propelled him up from the depths several times. It was not a restful respite.

His final ascension from pseudo-sleep was to the tune of a scream, torn from his own throat by vivid visions of necks pulsing their last blood into an indifferent world.

When consciousness truly returned, he found himself once again surrounded by Rossi's arms. Rossi's words falling around him, pattering with the soft persistence of a comforting rain.

"Aaron…Aaron…wake up, Aaron. It's a dream. Just a dream. You're safe…you're safe…you're safe… Wake up, Aaron… You're safe…"

Hotch struggled up, panting. "Sorry…sorry…" He fought to gather himself into some semblance of normalcy. Before he could, Rossi's phone rang, demanding attention.

Dave saw Morgan's ID. Unthinking, he answered…

…and that's when Hotch's nightmare truly began.


	14. Compulsion

"You want to _what_?!"

Rossi had taken himself out of Hotch's hearing as soon as Morgan had announced his intentions. Fresh from a nightmare, the last thing Aaron needed was even a hint of what Derek was planning.

"I want to take Hotch to see Peter Lewis. I want them to face each other. I want Bossman to see him for what he really is…just another unsub. No special powers. No hold over anyone. Not anymore."

Dave scrubbed a hand over his gritty eyes, hoping to rub away the worry and lingering weariness…and giving himself a moment to consider what, at first, sounded like an ill-conceived, dangerous idea. "Derek, I don't think Hotch is in any kind of shape to confront the author of his agony…know what I'm saying?"

"We'll be there with him. He won't be alone."

Rossi exhaled a long, slow breath, dredging up the patience to hear Morgan out. "And you think this will do Hotch good?"

"Rossi, he's not drugged anymore. He's not suggestible. Right now Lewis exists in his memory as a Svengali…someone who can manipulate him, pull his strings and push his buttons. Show a jailed Lewis to a clear-headed Hotch and the profiler will come forward and realize just how powerless the guy is."

"Or…" Dave interjected. "…it'll trigger all the sleeping monsters deep in Hotch's brain that Lewis might have put there. We don't know everything he did to Hotch. He said that himself, didn't he? Said that he'd done more than we could possibly imagine?"

"I think he was bluffing, Rossi." Morgan's voice went low, intense, filled with hatred for the unsub who'd messed with his Unit Chief. "We're giving him too much credit. I think he wants us to look at Hotch like he's booby-trapped. Wants us to walk on eggshells around him. Nothing makes a man doubt himself more than if everyone around him does, too."

A few beats of silence fell while Rossi considered the truth of Morgan's words. Still… "I don't know. He's not himself, Derek. He's more emotional than I've ever seen him. More unpredictable. He woke up screaming just a few minutes ago. I don't think he needs another shock right now. Give him a chance to find his footing and then we can talk it over with him."

"No! Rossi, that's the worst thing we could do!..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When the call had come in and Rossi had taken it out to the hallway, all Hotch had known was the arms that had made him feel safe, had gone away.

In their absence, he pushed himself against the bed's headboard and pulled one of Dave's over-stuffed pillows to his chest, clutching it in place of his friend's warm presence. Face pressed into the pliable softness, Hotch fought his own battle.

His first desperate wish was that he could turn back time. He wanted more than anything to wake up the day before yesterday, and do it all differently. He could recall opening his eyes to the morning, mind sharp and focused and formidable. He remembered the usual thrill of anticipation for what the day might bring. He loved challenges, puzzles, situations that called on his specific talents. He loved his team and how they were like extensions of his own thoughts and movements.

He wanted to wake up vital again.

He was afraid he never would.

He reviewed his steps leading up to the encounter with Peter Lewis, regretting every one, yet unable to see any viable alternatives. Everything he'd done had seemed necessary and right at the time.

His mind skittered over the interval spent with the unsub. But he couldn't ignore the tail end of the experience. When his team had found him, broken and limp, wet-eyed and shattered. Clearest of all was when he'd watched them take Lewis away. The man's knowing smirk was seared into Hotch's memory. That and the feeling of helpless horror.

He pulled the pillow tighter to him. Somehow he knew…he just _knew_…that those last impressions wouldn't fade and disappear, vanishing into the obscurity of irrelevant recall. Neither would they remain preserved in isolation, popping up at unguarded moments.

They would grow.

They would feed on him, pulling from his life force, growing stronger and more vivid as he and all he'd built with his life, grew weaker.

Hotch reviewed the previous night. He replayed Reid's words and made the gargantuan effort to separate his terror from them; to acknowledge the pure logic behind them. _Nothing to be ashamed of. Primal fear is universally human. We all have it. Nothing to be ashamed of…_ He moaned into the pillow. _Then why am I ashamed? He made me feel like an animal. He accessed the primal in me. What else did he unleash?_

Deep emotions began to bubble in Hotch. They were _all_ of primal force. They intertwined. He couldn't separate them out; couldn't identify and isolate so they could be dealt with.

Too much. Too powerful. He had to do something to evade them. _Move! Just move!_

He scrambled off the bed, finding his balance after a moment's uncertain wavering. _Move!_ He was too close to the compulsion to recognize that it, too, was a primal urge. Action, the consumption of energy via muscle and sinew, would drain off what otherwise would fuel emotion. _Move!_

He padded out to the hallway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Morgan, you're not thinking that old adage about getting back up on the horse applies _here_, are you?" Rossi wanted Hotch to have some quiet time to build himself back up. He didn't think pushing him into a confrontation would accomplish anything good.

"Yes! That's exactly what I think! Look…" Derek pitched his voice to a tone he hoped conveyed level-headed rationality. "The longer we let Hotch stew in his own skewed fears and visions, the stronger they'll get. You _know_ him. He's gonna go over every step and every word a thousand times."

"Hotch _does_ review cases in his head. We all do. But…"

A gravelly baritone cut Rossi short.

"If you're gonna talk about me, I want in on it."

Dave did a slow turn, knowing Morgan had heard the Unit Chief's voice over the connection by his breathy silence that nonetheless managed to carry an anxious sense of anticipation.

Rossi hesitated. He could see fear in Hotch's eyes, but there was something tumultuous about the man; an unsettled edginess. _He's not himself!_

For his part, Aaron still felt the rising tide of emotional turmoil inside. It was in danger of usurping his reason. It would swamp him if he let it.

He had to _do_ something. And soon.

"Tell me what's going on, Dave. That's an order."

It was said in a growl that sent a frisson of alarm shuddering up Rossi's spine.


	15. Devolution

"Aaron…how're you feeling?"

Rossi was stalling for time. He needed a moment and some interaction to decipher Hotch's mood. He could almost feel Morgan listening in over the phone.

"Like people are talking about me instead of talking to me."

"You're the one who needs to do the talking, Aaron. Reid and I spent a lot of time last night trying to make that happen. Are you ready now?"

It was hard to interpret this version of Hotch. His voice was graveled. It reminded Dave of Mudgie's snarl. There was definitely an undertone of frustration moving toward aggression. But the man's body language was broadcasting just the opposite. Shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself. And the eyes. The sad, sad eyes.

Rossi felt a pang of concern. _He's a mess. It's all too fresh and he hasn't sorted it out enough to deal with it himself. He doesn't know what's happened to him and it's making him angry. He probably needs to lash out at something…or someone. But Peter Lewis? _ Dave bit his lip. _Too risky._

"Morgan's on the line. He's worried. Wanted to know how you were doing." Rossi extended the phone toward Hotch. He wasn't surprised when Aaron refused it, giving his head a tense shake and hugging himself even tighter. "So you're not ready to talk. Not really." He was studying Hotch for all he was worth. Every profiler's sense on full alert.

And all he was getting were mixed signals. _He needs help. He's talking, but not about what's going on inside of him. Maybe he'll be able to, if he can work off some of the confusion and the raw emotion._

Hotch backed away from the phone, feeling waves of shame and fury and fear. The little beast at the back of his mind couldn't break through its cage. It whimpered and waited for whatever would happen; whatever would decide its fate. Turning, Hotch stumbled back to his room.

Rossi watched with stricken eyes. This wasn't the decisive, efficient leader of the BAU. This was a victim.

"Morgan, come over. I know Reid's take on what's been done to him. I'd like yours, too. And after you see what he's like, you'll let me know if you still think a meeting with Lewis is advisable."

"On my way…"

Morgan was out the door and headed toward Rossi's side of the tracks in less than a minute.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi put his phone away and went after Hotch.

He found the Unit Chief in the position that was becoming all too familiar: sitting on the edge of the mattress, leaning over, elbows braced on knees, hands fisted in his hair…the poster boy for Cowlicks on Holiday. Rossi didn't know what else to do, so he took a seat beside his friend, leaning over so he could watch the tense expressions, hoping to garner some clues about how to help through the minute movements of facial musculature.

Dave sighed. "I can't pretend to know how you feel, Aaron. That's why I need you to talk to me. You don't have to go through this alone. We already broke through the steps, the fears Lewis knit together. But there's something else. I just don't know how to get it out of you."

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to enclose Hotch in a one-armed hug, but the second Aaron felt the touch, he jerked away. It was more than a flinch. His breathing roughened. His muscles shuddered.

Rossi pulled back, frowning. Up to this point Hotch had seemed to welcome physical contact. _Well…__**most**__ of it, anyway…except for Reid and that second or two with me…But this is different._ "Aaron, what's wrong? I'm not going to hurt you. What's going on with you?"

"I don't _knooooow_…" It was almost a wail. An _angry_ wail. Something animalistic about it that made Rossi want to pull back for his own safety. "That's the whole problem, Dave! I don't knoooow! I can't tell you, because I don't know what's wrong! It just _is_…"

Dave leaned away, watching a portrait in mental torment. _Primal. That's where we left it last night. Lewis accessed fear at a primal level. So, what else did he do?_ Rossi made a conscious effort to separate himself from the fact that Hotch was his best friend and was hurting. He compartmentalized his own emotional reaction in favor of letting his professionally rational mind dissect the situation.

Like a case.

_Like a victim!_ Rossi quickly shoved the thought into a corner and locked it away for the time being. Hotch needed analysis, not commiseration. Once Dave had distanced himself and could assess this damaged man…_victim!_...with cool detachment, he believed even more in Reid's theory that the unsub had dug down to the primal level of the psyche. He'd done it quickly and brutally, because time was running out. The FBI were on their way and Lewis had to go for maximum effect with minimum effort.

Rossi observed Hotch and felt a sick dread begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Aaron was struggling to control himself. He was trying to avoid very basic triggers, like being touched.

_He wasn't like this just a few hours ago. Whatever Lewis did, it's either evolving, or Hotch is __**de**__volving. His control is disintegrating and he's scared of losing command of himself. And there's definitely the capacity for violence lurking just under the surface. We need to find a way to let him release it safely, or the pressure will consume him._

Noise pulled Dave from his musings.

Downstairs, Morgan rang the doorbell in urgent, demanding bursts.

Rossi stood, backing away from Hotch's huddled form with its labored breathing.

_I wonder how Derek would feel about being Aaron's sparring partner…_


	16. Storm

Dave opened the door on a Morgan who was slightly breathless from hurry and worry.

They dispensed with greetings or small talk.

"What I heard over the phone didn't sound good, Rossi. Didn't sound like Hotch. Sounded…strained, I guess is how I'd describe it."

Dave lifted an eyebrow at his colleague. "Yeah, well, he's all over the map emotionally and he can't help himself. I asked him what was wrong and he couldn't put a name to it. Reid said it's like a division between intellect and heart…that Lewis got into him on some primal level."

"Oh, man…" Morgan shook his head, rubbing both hands over his shaved scalp. "So did Pretty Boy have any ideas on how to…I don't know…put Hotch back together again?"

"No. We were both pretty wrung out by the end of the night. Reid's probably still asleep. Hotch and I _would_ be, except…" Rossi gave a dejected sigh. "…he woke up screaming." Both men were headed toward the stairs, their steps automatic, their agreement unspoken that Morgan needed to see his boss for himself. "As for your idea about staging a confrontation between him and Peter Lewis…" Dave shook his head, letting the gesture communicate his opinion of that strategy.

"I haven't given up on that. All I know is if someone got to _me_ like that, I'd want the chance to hit back. It would mean a lot…" He gave Rossi a pointed look. "…on a _primal_ level." The senior agent didn't respond with anything other than a grimace. "So what was his nightmare about? Did he tell you?"

"No. I'd just got to him when you called. He wasn't coherent enough to talk about it, and I'm not sure if his reluctance all along to communicate is coming from him or if maybe it's some directive Lewis planted in him."

Morgan shuddered. "_That's_ an ugly thought."

They had reached the door to Hotch's room. Rossi gave a single token tap to the frame, and stepped over the threshold with Derek close behind. Hotch had changed position. His back was pressed against the headboard, knees drawn up. It reminded Dave of how he'd found him in the shower, folded into as small a space as a lanky 6'2" body could occupy. His head was down, resting against his knees, but turned away from the door. Rossi couldn't help thinking of a child's diversionary tactics again. In addition to making himself too small to notice, he wasn't looking. _I can't see you…you can't see me…_

"Aaron, Morgan's here."

No reply, but Hotch seemed to pull in even closer on himself, arms circling his bent knees more tightly.

"Hotch?" Frowning, Derek went to his boss's side. Standing over him, he couldn't tell much. At the very least, he wanted to see the wound on the Unit Chief's temple; the place where Lewis had struck him and drawn blood. "Hey, man…" With gentle, insistent hands Morgan gripped Hotch's shoulders, intending to straighten him from his bent posture.

Hotch flinched away, a low growl issuing from his throat. "Leave me alone."

Derek took a step back, glancing at Rossi. The older man shrugged and shook his head. He was fresh out of advice. Morgan licked his lips and waded back in.

"Lemme see your head, Hotch. I wanna check where you got hit."

Once again, Aaron twisted out of his teammate's hold. Once again the graveled half-growl. "I _said_…leave me alone."

"Sorry, man, can't do that. Now straighten up and let me take a look at you."

Rossi could hear a steeliness in Morgan's tone. He wasn't sure what would happen, but he took a step backwards, away from them. _Maybe I won't have to ask Derek to do a little sparring. They might be headed that way on their own._

"Go away…I mean it."

"Look at me, Hotch."

"I'm not going to tell you again, Morgan. Leave me alone."

Rossi pitched his own voice low and reasonable. "Aaron, please. We're just trying to help."

Hotch didn't answer, but his breathing roughened. Dave reached out, touching Derek's shoulder with a cautioning gesture. The younger agent didn't take his eyes from Hotch, but he deftly removed Rossi's hand. The message was clear. _Don't interfere._

With no alternate course of action to offer, Dave made the decision to let whatever happened between the younger men play out. He retreated to the side of the room, his profiler's skills trained on both participants in what he had a feeling would be an unpleasant altercation. He could already sense something electric in the air, building toward a release of energy. _But maybe that's what Aaron needs. Maybe it'll propel him over whatever hurdle is blocking him._

Derek moved in. "I'm not going away, Hotch.

"Morgan, I'm…warning…you…"

At first Rossi thought it was like watching two boys testing each other to see who would rule the schoolyard. He analyzed the interactions and saw their connection to the primal. _It's always with us. It underlies so much of our lives. How we deal with each other. But as adults, we mask our behavior and access the basics only at need. This…this is what children do. It's rawer. Less controlled. It's what wolves do…testing each other's limits. Derek's pushing him…_

And then Morgan literally did. He flattened his palm against Hotch's side…and pushed…knocking him off balance, watching him fall over.

Rossi expected Aaron to lose his temper; maybe give his subordinate a heart-stopping glare and a few gritty, burning, choice words.

Derek expected much the same.

Neither was ready for the explosion of unleashed fury that rocketed off the bed and straight at Morgan.

In complete silence, which made it all the more surreal and terrible, Hotch gave in to all the frustration, fear, anger and pain he'd been struggling against. The little animal caged at the back of his mind, didn't understand the emotional storm breaking around it.

In terror, it hunkered down, taking all rational thought with it for safekeeping, and waiting in dread for whatever damage would result from a complete loss of control.


	17. Noise

Aaron Hotchner was a skilled combatant.

When Morgan had first joined the BAU, he'd subjected his leader to a very private, very silent evaluation. Something the Unit Chief sensed, but never mentioned. It was to be expected when two alpha males were assigned to the same team. Derek had taken his leader's measure and, at first, had felt himself the superior on a purely physical level.

Then he'd seen Hotch in action.

Morgan had changed his mind.

He had the edge over Hotch when it came to sheer muscle. Daily workouts had let him bulk up in a way he could tell his leader never would. Hotch's build leaned toward speed rather than raw power. Still, he carried enough muscle to make his punches effective. And after watching him in training, Morgan saw that Hotch could land more punches and avoid receiving more of them by virtue of his agility.

Derek factored in Bossman's endurance and grudgingly admitted to himself that the leader of the BAU deserved to be considered an equal when it came to physical confrontation.

Subsequent opportunities to see Hotch in the field, served to increase Morgan's respect for the man. He was a sly, cagy fighter. He brought his intellect with him when he engaged an opponent. He never abandoned his experience as a profiler, using it to give him an additional edge over the unfortunate few who took Hotch on. Shrewdness and speed gained new value in Derek's estimation.

Aaron Hotchner was indeed a skilled combatant.

Usually.

But there wasn't anything 'usual' about the man who vaulted from the bed straight into Morgan.

Afterwards, Derek would attribute the surprise factor with allowing Hotch to land the first blow. He hadn't expected his boss to attack with a complete lack of discipline. It was like grappling with a wildcat.

Only worse.

As much as Morgan wanted to defend himself, and on a _primal_ level…the recognition of which made Derek feel sheepish…_beat_ Hotch, a deeper instinct warned him against hurting the Unit Chief. It would have been easy to take unfair advantage of Aaron. His moves had no finesse, no strategy. He was operating on pure emotion.

Morgan's brain was racing as he fended off a furious flurry of blows. _He needs to do this. He has no idea about consequences…which is really __**primal**__! Gotta immobilize him. But, God, I hope I don't damage him in the process._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

To Rossi it all looked like a big, amorphous, grey blur.

Hotch launched himself toward Morgan. Morgan stumbled backwards, but regained his footing. And then it looked as though he were trying to contain a whirlwind. Dave thought about wading in and helping, but there was too much movement, too much chaos for him to know if he'd be doing more harm than good.

Then it was over. Or at least somewhat controlled.

Lacking his usual prowess, Hotch ended up caged in Morgan's arms, writhing and struggling for all he was worth.

Once Derek managed to lock his arms around his leader, he held on for dear life. _Don't squeeze too tight…don't squeeze too tight…_Despite his intentions, Morgan found it necessary to exert more force than he wanted. When Hotch finally made a noise, it was a small, pathetic whimper. He was running out of energy and couldn't get enough breath thanks to Derek's constrictive grip.

The Unit Chief kept struggling; his efforts growing weaker and weaker. When he finally went still, chest and ribs expanding and contracting in a rough, panting fight for oxygen, Morgan gave the body in his arms one short, sharp shake.

"You done, Bossman?"

Hotch didn't have enough breath to answer. He remained limp and gasping. Rossi and Morgan exchanged glances. The older man gave Aaron a sidelong, suspicious look. "I think he's done. He's not trying to fake you out. Doesn't have the…"

"…presence of mind…" Derek finished the thought they shared. "…Yeah, I get that. This was totally…"

"…primal…" Dave concluded, not to be outdone in the sentence-finishing department.

Morgan gave another much more gentle shake, loosening his hold just a little. "How 'bout it, Hotch? You done?"

Encouraged by Aaron's nod and his continued limp acquiescence, Derek stepped to the bedside, depositing his boss on the mattress edge as though he were setting down a ragdoll made of glass and eggshells. Hotch sat slumped over his knees, breathing beginning to calm. Morgan remained standing before him, but Rossi took a seat at his side, studying the downcast eyes.

"Did that make you feel better? Aaron?"

"I'm sorry. Morgan, I'm sorry. Sorry."

Derek was massaging his own biceps. It felt as though he'd been wrestling a python for hours on end. He knew there would be a few bruises forming. "Yeah, well…better me than anyone else, I guess."

"What set you off?" Rossi wanted to garner as much information as possible from the episode while it was still fresh in Hotch's mind.

"He pushed me."

"No. I mean what did you feel? What were you thinking right before you attacked?"

Aaron bent his head lower, resting the heels of his hands over his cheekbones, effectively covering his eyes. _Attacked! I attacked my own agent! I don't deserve to lead this team if that's how I behave…_ "I don't know…I just wanted all the noise to stop."

"Noise?" Rossi met Morgan's eyes, signaling that this might be of significance.

"What noise, Hotch? I hardly said two sentences before you sprang at me." Derek rubbed his neck. "And I sure wasn't saying anything after. Neither were you for that matter."

Aaron's hands trailed down his face as he sat straighter. Rossi saw fear and what he could only describe as a haunted quality in the man's eyes. "What kind of noise, Aaron? Describe it."

"It…it was…I mean, it started as…" He swallowed, turning tragic eyes filled with confusion on his colleagues.

"Take it slow, man. Breathe." Morgan could see the beginnings of hyperventilation in the rapid respiration.

"Don't jump ahead of yourself, Aaron." Rossi kept his voice pitched to the most soothing timbre he could manage. "The first you became aware of it, what did the noise sound like?"

Hotch closed his eyes. His neck twisted as though he were trying to shake off something clinging. "It didn't 'start.' It's always there. Still. Him. It sounded like him."

Neither Morgan nor Rossi needed to ask who Aaron meant.

There was only one person with a direct line to Hotch's brain.

Apparently, the connection was still open.


	18. Anchor

Reid didn't like being reminded of how he'd nearly died in Texas.

The night spent digging through Hotch's visions and terrors brought it all back with stunning force to the young agent. He woke several times, thinking of the Unit Chief and running a hand along the side of his neck where a small, pale scar bore mute testimony to his brush with bleeding out.

The final time he woke, knowing it was useless to try to get back to sleep, Reid stayed flat on his back and tried to remember every detail of the experience. With his eidetic memory, he was bothered that he retained so little. He'd told Hotch that the body's natural resources acted as a defense against the pain of mortal injuries. He knew the brain could do the same, blocking out trauma with selective blurring and fuzzing of events. He'd just always thought it would be different for him. His brain wasn't like other people's.

Inevitably, Reid grew bored delving into his own situation and turned his thoughts to Hotch and the way Peter Lewis had tied together a series of fears like a bridge from the primal to the upper levels of sentience. As was its custom, the young genius's brain assembled data in an almost subliminal rush, leaping from concept to concept in ways that most would find baffling, seeming to travel from foundation to pinnacle without any intermediary stops along the way.

_Bridge…he build a bridge from the pit of Hotch's fears…or maybe it's more like layering…layering…_ Spencer accessed multiple mentions of 'layering' that he'd read or heard of during a lifetime of insatiable curiosity. _Layering...layering and mind control…_ His honey-colored eyes widened; his lips parted in sudden comprehension.

_Neuro Linguistic Programming! NLP! A lot of people say it's only good for things like advertising or lobbying on Capitol Hill, but the theory is it works in layers, and…and…if you boosted it with the right drugs and sped up the process…_

Reid bolted up from his bed.

He didn't care if he might be waking Rossi after a long night; didn't bother to check the time.

Because time was the one thing they might not have.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi and Morgan stared at their Unit Chief, who at the moment looked more like a fragile baby bird than a formidable FBI agent.

Both were trying to absorb how Hotch could be hearing Lewis's voice and what it might imply. When Rossi's ringtone sounded, he fished the phone from his pocket. Eyes still fixed on Aaron, he answered without checking caller ID. He didn't even get a full 'hello' out before Reid's frantic voice was clamoring at him, every word fraught with urgency.

"Rossi! Rossi! Get Hotch's phone! Get it away from him! Get it _now_!"

Dave turned puzzled eyes on Morgan who could hear every word the young agent's voice shrilled at them. "Reid? What's wrong?"

"Just _do_ it!"

Hotch had heard as well, but he seemed more interested in avoiding direct eye contact than anything else in the wake of his and Morgan's physical altercation. Rossi shrugged and turned toward Hotch. "Where's your phone?"

Aaron gave his teammate a sad, quick glance. "I don't know. Around here somewhere."

Reid's voice shrieked with impatience. "Find it! Don't let him answer if anyone calls!"

Morgan started digging through his boss's go-bag while Rossi stood, trying to recall if he'd seen Hotch's cell when he'd taken the man's clothes the previous night. Like a good investigator, he retraced his steps to the bathroom where he'd found Hotch crouched in the shower, sobbing.

Sure enough, the phone was sitting on the counter. Forgotten. _Which is a sign of how disturbed Aaron is_, thought Rossi. _That, his badge and his gun are practically welded to him at all times._

"Did you get it? Rossi?" Reid demanded immediate attention.

"Yeah, kid. I've got it. Now, you wanna explain _why_ I've got it?"

"Okay, but don't give it back to Hotch and, if a call comes through, don't answer it anywhere in his hearing…got it? In fact, just don't answer it at all, okay? Just to be sure?"

Rossi had returned to the bedroom door. Gesturing at Morgan, he displayed the cell to let him know he could stop searching, but he was running out of patience. With a long-suffering sigh, he stepped back and wandered a few steps down the hallway. "Reid, you know what last night was like. I haven't had much sleep. I think you need to tell me what this is all about."

"Sure. Sure. How's Hotch?"

Rossi snapped. "Reid! What's the deal with his phone?!"

"Um…okay…" The young genius was breathless from a surfeit of adrenalin. "Do you know about NLP? Uh…Neuro-Linguistic Programming? It was big in the 70s?"

"Yes, I know about it. It doesn't work, kid. It led to a whole lot of paranoia, but NLP did not lead to widespread mind control."

"No, Rossi…listen!" Something in Reid's tone made the older man shelve his impatience just a little longer. "It was big in the 70s because that's when there was a peak in recreational use of hallucinogens. The principles behind NLP are sound. But only if you add the use of pharmaceuticals. NLP says that you can hone in on an individual's thought patterns by manipulating language…like…like…" Spencer grasped for an example. "…like Hotch is an auditory person more than a visual one, so using directives like '_see_ it this way' or '_look_ at it like this' don't resonate with him as much as '_hear_ what I mean' or '_listen_ to me.' It's persuasive on its own, but if you add in a drug tailored to make you suggestible and to foster hallucinations, it _does_ work, Rossi! In the hands of someone smart enough and unscrupulous enough, it _does_ give mind control!"

Dave was interested, but he still didn't see why… "So what does Hotch's phone have to do with it?"

"Maybe nothing, but last night he said that Lewis hadn't stopped talking at him, whispering to him. That's part of the auditory nature of Hotch himself. But the thing that was really hotly debated about NLP was installing what they called an 'anchor.' It was a word or a gesture or an image…something related to the subject's vulnerable sense...that would set off a pre-programmed response." Reid paused to catch his breath.

"Kid, are you saying…is this 'anchor' what we'd call a 'trigger?'"

"Yeah. That's what I'm saying. And if Lewis did that…if he installed an anchor, the only way he can get to Hotch now is if it's auditory. I mean, he's in jail. He can't touch Hotch or show him a picture or make him smell something. It has to be auditory…"

"And the way he could access it would be to use the phone."

"Exactly. Rossi, I know it's a long shot, but I just have this _feeling_…"

"It's not a long shot. Hotch just attacked Morgan…"

"_What_?!"

"…and when it was over he said he did it to make the noises stop. And the noise turned out to be a voice that wouldn't shut up…"

"Lewis! He got into Hotch and set an anchor…a trigger…"

Rossi looked back toward the bedroom, wishing Reid and his eidetic memory had been present to hear everything the three of them had said right before Hotch went ballistic.

"Kid, I'm gonna get back to Hotch and Morgan. And I won't let him take any calls or hear any that come through."

"Okay. But…Rossi, could you check his phone? If any calls _did_ come through, maybe there's a message or something that'll help us unravel whatever Lewis did."

Dave shook his head. He must be more tired than he thought, not to have already done that himself. With Reid still on the line, he opened Hotch's phone.

Two calls had come in from the same number…one with an area code Rossi didn't recognize. No messages had been left. Moving as far from the open bedroom door as he could, Rossi hit the callback on the mystery number, holding it close enough for Reid to listen in.

"Good morning. Garrett County Jail. How may I direct your call?" The voice was toneless, efficient.

Both Rossi's and Reid's stomachs dropped. They knew which inmate had been trying to reach Hotch.


	19. Unsub

Peter Lewis was getting worried.

He'd done his best to cover his bases; to provide for every eventuality. But he hadn't been able to reach Agent Hotchner. He'd found it child's play to hack into the FBI's mainframe. He'd picked up a lot of useful information, but the thing he'd sought and found first was the BAU Unit Chief's phone number.

When offered his one call after he was booked into Garrett County Jail, Lewis had chuckled to himself as he dialed. Whoever was with the redoubtable Mr. Hotchner would be getting one hell of a surprise.

But the number hadn't gone through.

He'd hung up and pleaded to be able to call again at a later time, because, really, this was the only number he had that would do him any good. The jailhouse staff were spread thin. They didn't much care how many calls inmates made as long as they shut up and didn't cause trouble. And the prisoner who couldn't seem to reach his party was an unimpressive, meek-looking character. Creepy in the way a perennial misfit who had problems socializing could be, but no real trouble.

So they let him try calling his number periodically. He was polite enough about thanking his jailers for the privilege.

But then they had a chance to read the charges brought against him. And the crime scene photos were passed around. And there was no doubt at all about Lewis's guilt. There was something odd about him, though. Something was going on inside him. He was agitated and on edge, but completely accepting of his role in multiple, heinous murders.

Soon, the staff avoided him. They didn't grant him the opportunity to use the phone as readily.

He became a little more wild-eyed. Something was fermenting inside him, but other than repeated pleas to make a call to a number he claimed would pick-up eventually…Lewis kept to himself.

Then, he couldn't help hearing the talk surrounding his case. Everyone who knew anything kept saying it was a foregone conclusion.

The one thing Lewis had overlooked.

He'd planned this escapade for years. He'd been resigned to being caught and put to death for his actions. But he'd felt it was worth it to strike back at all the people who'd wronged him and his family. What he hadn't realized in all his brilliant scheming was that Maryland had abolished the death penalty in 2013.

Everyone said it was a sure thing. Lewis would be imprisoned for the rest of his life.

And that was the one thing Peter Lewis dreaded more than anything. Trapped in an institution with minds that were so far below his, it would be a slow, intellectual death. His brain would calcify with disuse and abuse. He would go truly and irrevocably mad.

He began to make a new plan.

To that end, he stopped calling Hotch.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid threw on some mismatched clothes and headed for Rossi's.

He needed to talk to Morgan and find out exactly what had lit Hotch's fuse, if possible. Most of all, he wasn't sure he'd communicated the full import of keeping the Unit Chief out of Lewis's reach. And privately, although he'd be loath to admit it to anyone, Reid was fascinated by the situation. Knowing what he did now about NLP, he wanted some one-on-one time with his leader, because this was a unique opportunity to see some of the inner workings of the human mind…something terrible and wonderful and very close to Spencer's heart.

Sometimes his own mind scared him. Regardless, he would be its student for the rest of his life. And right now it was telling him to grab these circumstances with both hands. That was the exhilarating aspect. The terrifying one was… _This is Hotch! Our Hotch! My Hotch! We can't lose him. I have to find a way to help him…_

As he drove into Rossi's manicured driveway, Reid couldn't banish visions of the previous night.

Hotch crying, cringing, sick, exhausted, confused, frightened.

The genius knew what it was like to be afraid of his own intellect, but he was used to the idea. Hotch wasn't. He wasn't meant for this kind of torture. Spencer felt a tear slide down one cheek as he stared up at Rossi's impressive mansion façade.

Behind the elegant architecture, the beautiful door, Hotch was suffering. His mind held a rare kind of nobility. And Lewis had tampered with it.

All Reid wanted was to get it back.

But he had no idea how.


	20. One on One

"How's he doing?"

Reid slipped out of his jacket and reached to hang it up, so focused on the welfare of his Unit Chief he didn't realize he'd missed the coatrack. His outerwear crumpled into a limp heap at its clawed feet.

"Not so good." Rossi retrieved the fallen garment, hanging it in its proper place. "About what you'd imagine: guilty and ashamed he went after Morgan. Scared of himself and what else he might do."

"Emotional instability probably feels like something new that he can't make any sense of, Rossi. There's no rational genesis; he doesn't know where it came from. Doesn't trust himself, which hits Hotch right where he lives. He's all about being trustworthy to a fault. If he doubts himself, he won't risk putting any of us in danger on the job. He'll quit the team at the very least."

Dave made his slow way toward the staircase. "Well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves." He regarded Reid out the corner of his eye as they ascended the steps. "Morgan said he wants to stage a confrontation between Peter Lewis and Hotch. What do you think?"

"God, no. I mean, let me look at him. But right now I'm thinking that putting Hotch in close proximity with possibly the only person who knows how to pull his trigger is taking a big risk…. Maybe…" Even as he voiced his concerns, Reid's brain was racing through a multitude of probable consequences. He paused on the landing, mid-step and mid-sentence, frowning.

"What is it, kid? Now's not the time to keep stuff to yourself."

"I'm not sure…but, Rossi, I read everything I could find online about Neuro-Linguistic Programming and I don't think there's a way to implant more than one anchor at a time. Lewis would have been rushed. He would've put all his eggs in one basket. So, if there's an auditory trigger that makes Hotch violent, I don't think Lewis would risk setting it off if they were in the same room. Maybe a confrontation isn't such a bad idea. Maybe we could scare him into telling us what he did to Hotch. It'd be like pointing a loaded gun at him."

"Only the gun is human and wouldn't be able to live with itself if it went off."

Rossi's expression was one of mixed admiration and dismay, partly at the idea of Reid's ability to speed through more information within an hour than others could gather in a month. _And he'd absorb it at a phenomenal rate of accuracy, too. Amazing._ Yet, as much as Dave could admire the young agent's mental gifts, it also bothered him that their unsub was of similar intellect.

He was feeling increasingly worthless when it came to helping Hotch. _How can those of us with normal intelligence predict how genius works?_ The whole art and science of profiling was based on playing the odds. As twisted as an unsub might be, there was still a baseline for understanding and predicting how he'd behave. But when you factored in extreme intelligence, that predictability flew out the window. All the equations they relied on turned to dust. Including empathy. _What does it feel like to have a brain like theirs?_

Spencer read conflict and indecision in Rossi's face. "You're right. I'm getting ahead of myself. What I really need to do right now is look at Hotch. Then maybe we'll be able to figure out how to help."

Reid's throat had gone dry. He was beginning to realize how much hinged on his being able to thwart Lewis. It was boiling down to a battle of wits.

And Spencer was used to working with a team. Right now he felt very, very alone.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Approaching the bedroom door, Rossi and Reid could hear the low murmur of voices.

They entered the room to find Derek crouched down in front of Hotch, who was still bent over, sitting on the mattress edge. The way Morgan was maneuvering, it was clear he was trying to engage the man's eyes. Reid's brows shot up. His voice carried sharper warning than he'd intended.

"Morgan! Don't do that! Don't try to force eye contact."

Derek glanced up at the newcomers. "Huh? Why not?"

"Because that's part of the process of Neuro-Linguistic Programming."

"Say _what_?!" Morgan wasn't in the mood for riddles. He was sore from being attacked and unhappy about having to bear-hug Hotch into submission. He wouldn't have minded a target on which to vent some of his frustration. But they were dealing with a rarefied kind of psychological manipulation that he had to admit was out of his comfort zone. "Speak English, Reid."

Mild-mannered Spencer took no offense. "It's a theoretical system of behavior modification. It starts with studying the subject's eyes. Trying to stare someone down is a typical alpha male tactic. I bet that's how it started. We've all seen Hotch do that. Only this time it didn't work. With drugs giving a chemical boost, it gave the unsub the initial information he needed to break into Hotch's psyche."

A low rumble came from the bedside. "Don't talk about me as though I'm not here."

"No. I…I didn't mean to. Sorry, Hotch." Reid turned pleading eyes on his other two colleagues. "I need to be alone with him." His voice lowered, an edge of concern creeping in. "I need to see if I can follow in Lewis's footsteps."

Morgan gave Hotch one more glance before straightening up, every movement slow and deliberate as though he were trying not to alarm a particularly volatile, wild animal. "You sure that's a good idea? I mean, being alone with him?"

Only Rossi saw the pained look cross Aaron's narrow features.

"Come on, Morgan. Let's leave them alone." _If we show Hotch that we're doubting him and that we don't trust him, he'll take that and run with it. Then Reid'll be right. He'll quit the team, thinking it's the only way to keep us all safe from him._

Dave turned at the door, ushering Derek out before him. He shot a worried look at Reid. "We'll be downstairs if you guys need anything."

Rossi exited, closing the door behind him, hoping that Hotch saw it as a demonstration of trust.

And knowing he was leaving Reid, the least physically adept agent on the team, with one of the most deadly.


	21. The Condition

Reid took a careful seat beside his leader.

"Hotch, I think I know what Peter Lewis did to you, and I'm gonna try to help, so…" The young agent sounded tentative, but it was the slight edge of fear in his voice that hit Aaron hardest.

"Reid, I don't want you to do anything that might put you in danger. _Any_thing. Do you understand? _An-y-thing_. That's a direct order."

Spencer paused. He was trying to go forward as gently as possible. It was encouraging to be reminded that Hotch's chief concern, as always, was for those around him. _With a compassionate core that strong, I have to believe that no unsub, no twisted psychotherapy, could truly alter him._ He tried not to let Hotch hear him swallow the lump in his throat. _Drugs could overcome the natural tendency to protect others. A person __**can**__ be changed over time, but Lewis was rushed. He couldn't have transformed Hotch's essential nature. I __**have**__ to believe that._

"Hotch, please. I won't take any unnecessary risks. There _is_ a trigger the unsub planted in you. I just want to test out the theory I have about how he did it. If I know more about that, maybe we can find a countermeasure that'll remove it." His tone became plaintive, almost sad. "I don't think you'd willingly hurt anyone, Hotch. I think you'd fight against it with everything you've got."

The response was almost a growl; filled with self-loathing. "I just attacked Morgan. Your trust is misplaced."

"No, it's not. Besides, it's a two-way street. I need you to trust me to do this without putting either of us in danger. That's all I'm asking."

Hotch was still focused on the carpet under his feet. "How are you going to defend yourself if I go off? Answer me that."

"I'll ask you to stop."

Hotch didn't know if the simplicity of Reid's answer was born of innocence or ignorance. Didn't matter. "No. Morgan fought back with all his strength. It almost wasn't enough. You don't get it, Reid. I…couldn't…stop."

"That's 'cause Morgan _did_ fight back. I wouldn't." The young agent joined his boss in contemplating the floor. "I couldn't. I wouldn't stand a chance against you. You know it. You knew Morgan could defend himself. That's why you let yourself go."

"That's a pretty shaky theory to risk your life on, Reid."

"Do you remember what you felt like right before you attacked?"

A few beats of silence passed as Hotch savored his distaste for the emotions that had coursed through him in an unstoppable flood. "Angry. Furious."

"Morgan made you angry?"

"He pushed me."

It was Reid's turn to fall silent for a moment as he considered how the altercation began. "I think your trigger is auditory, Hotch, not tactile. Did Morgan _say_ anything?"

"Yeah." He frowned. "I don't really remember."

"That's Lewis. He made sure you wouldn't recall the trigger, so it can set you off again and again. It wasn't anything special. Probably some phrase or word that he was sure would pop up in everyday conversation, resulting in multiple attacks."

Hotch leaned into his hands, burying his face. His youngest agent had just voiced his biggest fear. _I'm a time bomb with a reusable fuse. A really __**common**__ reusable fuse._ "You need to get out of here, Reid. And stop talking to me. You might say…" His voice faltered, but recovered. "…the wrong thing."

Spencer didn't move. Side by side they remained, each lost in his own thoughts. At last, Reid broke the silence.

"I know we made a deal never to profile each other, Hotch, but I also know we all do it. We just don't talk about it. So here's the thing." He confronted the Unit Chief's profile; Aaron was still holding eye contact in abeyance. "Whenever Morgan walks into a room and you're there, your posture changes. It's subtle. Subconscious. You stand a little straighter. Your eyes narrow. It's almost undetectable. Morgan does the same. If you approach him, he kind of…I don't know…_flexes_. It's down on that primal level again: you challenge each other."

"Challenging's a lot different than attacking, Reid."

"I know, but the point is it's subliminal. That's where Lewis worked on you. You already noticed Morgan as a rival and when he pulled the trigger, it was irresistible. Those two things together set you off in a different way than if someone like me were to be the initiator."

Finally, Hotch turned, subjecting his teammate to a searching look. "Morgan may be more my physical equal, but I never want you to think you're somehow lesser, Reid. Not in my eyes. You have abilities that surpass anything I could ever hope to attain. I want you to know that."

It was what Spencer had hoped for. "Then trust me now, Hotch. You don't feel challenged by me physically, and it's that brute-force type of physicality that matters in primal terms. I'll know when to stop. Trust me," he repeated.

Aaron rubbed his eyes with both hands, trying to quiet his fear for this young man who was as brave as any of them, and smarter than all of them. After a few moments, he dropped his hands, regarding Reid with sad eyes. Spencer was feeling hopeful, but Hotch's next words made every organ in his body cringe.

"Do you have your gun with you?"

"I…uh…no! I don't need a gun to do this!"

"That's the only way I'll go along with whatever it is you're planning." Aaron took a deep breath, releasing it in a shudder. "Go downstairs. Get a gun from Rossi. He has mine from …from…the crime scene." His stomach turned at the memory. "Come back, show me it's loaded, and then I'll cooperate."

"But…"

"Take it or leave it, Reid. The only way we're doing this, the only way you're staying alone with me, is if you're armed."


	22. Three Percent

Reid did it.

But he didn't feel good about it. Neither did Rossi or Morgan.

"What the hell?! No way, Pretty Boy. He was outta control when he came at me. No way I'm gonna let a loaded gun in the same room." Derek had grabbed the weapon, emptying the chamber and removing the cartridge with quick, deft movements.

"Morgan! He said I had to show him it was loaded or he wouldn't work with me! Stop it!" Reid made a snatch for the gun. Derek had no trouble keeping it out of his reach.

"Everyone calm down! Let's think this through." Rossi was operating on little sleep and lots of worry. It slowed his reactions enough for him to appear more composed than the others. Actually, the opposite was true. He desperately wanted Reid's help. As Dave saw it, the team genius was the only one who could go up against Peter Lewis with any hope of success. If he felt examining Hotch was necessary, they had to find a way to make that happen. But a loaded, lethal weapon added to the mix was an unexpected, and very scary, new ingredient.

Rossi commanded obedience by virtue of age and experience. The other two paused, giving him their attention. "Reid, can you show him the gun, and then put it out of reach? Like, on the other side of the room?"

"Doesn't matter where it is! Did you see how fast Bossman came at me?" Morgan rubbed his chest where a bruise had already formed, remembering the speed with which he'd been attacked. Recalling the brute force it had taken to cinch Hotch into his grip and contain the man he was sure would have ripped his throat out, given half a chance.

"That's because he sees you as a physical rival, Morgan!" Reid hated that his voice was scaling upward, sounding more panicked than persuasive. "It's different with me!"

"Of course it's different! You can't defend yourself!"

"You two need a timeout. Don't make me treat you like children and send you to separate corners." Rossi glared at his colleagues, wishing he had Hotch's ability to command via his eyes. "Give me the gun, Derek."

Morgan did so, reluctance painfully clear in every movement. When Dave extended his hand, palm up to receive the bullets, Derek backed away a step. "C'mon, Rossi. How's it gonna protect Reid to have a gun around when Hotch can take it away from him? Huh? How's that a good thing? And why can't I be there in case he goes lethal again?"

"Because I need him calm and having you around makes him bristle on a subliminal level. Same goes for you." Spencer held up his hands, staving off objections. "It doesn't mean you don't like each other or trust each other, Morgan. It's just how two alpha males react without even being aware of it."

Derek looked at Rossi for corroboration…and sighed when the older man nodded agreement. He toyed with the handful of bullets, still loath to give them up. "How about this…I'll keep the gun and be just outside the door in the hallway, listening in. Then, if anything goes wrong…"

"_**No**_!" Reid was on the verge of losing his temper; something that rarely ever happened. "If I set Hotch off, it won't be on a rational level. He's not going to reach for a gun. He'll attack with his bare hands. Like he did with you, Morgan. He'll be more animal than thinking human…"

"Oh, _that's_ reassuring!" Derek interjected.

"Damn it! We're wasting time!" Spencer's patience broke. Voice scalpel-sharp, he strode to Rossi and grabbed the gun from him. "I can't explain every detail so you'd understand it, Morgan. You'll have to trust me to know what I'm doing. Hotch does. You wanna stand outside the door…_fine_! But I'm not telling him. I want him relaxed and that's gonna be hard enough as it is without giving him proof that you think he's a ticking time bomb. Give me the bullets!" Reid never, ever, _ever_, played the intelligence card on his teammates. He never, ever, _ever_ flaunted his mental superiority, although he put it at their disposal, laying it before them like a gift to be used like any other job-related resource.

The fact that he now said justifying his tactics would take too long to explain in a way lesser minds could comprehend did more to sway his colleagues than any other argument he might have offered.

Reid continued to grumble as he loaded the weapon. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm pretty sure no one's going to be firing a gun. Hotch is hurting. Just let me do my thing and trust me to know what I'm doing."

Deadly force in hand, Spencer gave his teammates a last, imploring look. "You can listen at the door, but don't come barging in. Hotch won't hurt me." He turned, walking toward the stairs, mumbling to himself. "I'm 97% sure of it…"

Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances. Reid was a stickler for statistical accuracy.

Suddenly, 3% seemed like a tremendous risk.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis had gone very quiet and solitary.

He curled on the bunk in the corner of his cell, facing the wall. He might be asleep. He might be regretting his crimes. He might be pondering his uncertain future.

But he wasn't.

Lewis was giving himself up to a bout of fierce concentration. He'd hacked the FBI's mainframe, where he'd seen the sub-file devoted to contact information. When Agent Hotchner had fallen into his clutches, he'd thought the only number he'd need was the Unit Chief's cell. He had dismissed the others, relegating unnecessary data to a lower tier in his brain. All that had changed.

_Everything_ had changed with the looming possibility of Hell-on-earth…life imprisonment with a slow, dragging, intellectual death.

So the brilliant mind of Peter Lewis strained to reconstruct the page as he'd seen it…the numbers and names and titles and addresses. Byte by laborious byte he pulled the data from his picture-perfect, eidetic memory.

He was so close.

He could almost see the last couple of digits.

_David Rossi…SSA…Current assignment: BAU…(703)555-47…_

He knew he'd dredge them up eventually. All he had to do was relax enough to let the image form. But it was a difficult thing to do when one's whole future was being bet against the bond Lewis assumed would exist between the BAU Unit Chief and his most senior team member.

Lewis's breaths were slow, measured.

_It'll come. Just relax. Relaxation is the key…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Just relax, Hotch. Relaxation is the key…"

Reid had shown Aaron the gun and its full cartridge; a round already chambered. He knew Morgan was lurking in the hallway; ear probably pressed to the door. But he put it out of his mind.

Hotch needed to relax.

And Reid needed to concentrate.

Because he was about to enter the unknown, and very sensitive, territory of Hotch's mind…


	23. Stop Signs

"The way it works is…I need to look into your eyes, Hotch."

Reid had shown Aaron the gun and demonstrated that the chamber and cartridge were loaded. Hotch had nodded, looking uncomfortable at having the firearm close in spite of his request for its presence. He'd refused to touch it himself, which concerned Reid.

_But first things first. See if you can get a reaction…bring up a memory maybe…of someone having performed NLP on him._ Spencer sighed. _But none of it would have taken if he hadn't been drugged. So the best I can hope for is a rough approximation. And __**any**__ kind of corroboration from him._

Reid tucked the loaded gun into his waistband, covering it with the hem of his shirt, hoping that would keep it from becoming a constant reminder of the Unit Chief's self-doubt. He sat beside Hotch. After a moment's hesitation, he took Aaron's shoulders and turned him, twisting his torso so they were face to face. Only inches separating them.

"I know this is gonna feel weird, Hotch. But bear with me. Look straight into my eyes. If it'll make it easier, don't focus. Just try not to look away. Trust me."

"I do, but…" The low rumble trailed off into uncertainty.

"But what?"

And from that moment, Reid began seeing the clues that someone had done this to Hotch before.

There was no verbal response. Aaron's lips tightened. He gave his head a vague shake. He swallowed. His eyes, even though unfocused, wanted to dart away. Reid let his own gaze go a little blurry. _The eyes don't change much in and of themselves. It's the musculature. All the tiny twitches and pulls and contractions of 52 different muscles. That's what gives expression. That's what I need to focus on._

"I'm going to talk to you, Hotch. You don't have to answer. Just breathe and listen and don't look away. I'm going to talk to you about when I got shot…in Texas…it was dark…there were so many people…so much shooting…loud…and everyone moving…fast…and…" Spencer heard his leader's audible gulp.

Reid kept his voice droning on, pitched low and emotionless. It was hard. He thought he'd forgotten most of the experience, because of shock. But talking to, or rather _at_ Hotch, brought back more and more of the pain and the fear and the feeling of having failed his team…

He saw Hotch's pupils dilate and talked more and more about the pain of getting shot, even though he'd been truthful when he'd told Aaron that it hadn't hurt all that much. Pain was the primal fear he believed Lewis had accessed. That and the fact that Hotch had told Rossi that the unsub's voice was always murmuring to him; that he couldn't get it to stop. Those were the main clues from which Spencer worked.

The young agent felt terrible about what he did next.

After nearly 20 minutes of nonstop, hypnotic droning, Reid could tell Hotch wasn't himself. He was sweating; perspiration beaded his brow and upper lip. He was shivering; something he'd been doing on and off since Rossi had brought him home. His pupils remained large; the irises diminished to thin, brown rims outlining the velvety pools of black.

Reid let his voice rise slightly. "It's alright for you to talk, now…_Aaron_…tell me what you feel…tell me…tell me…"

Hotch's voice emerged thready. Thin and scratchy. "I…I'm scared…"

"What are you scared of?...Tell me…tell me…"

"Dying…pain…and…death…death…all around…"

"Tell me what you see, _Aaron_…tell me…tell me…tell me…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The voice was so soft, so persuasive.

Hotch felt lost. He needed something to save him, to lead him out of the dark place where he was all alone with nothing to define him but his fear. His instinct for self-preservation which made him…made him…_COWARD! I'm a coward!  
_

He had to follow the voice. It was the only other thing that existed here. If it couldn't save him…nothing could.

He went where it led. Desperate to please it, so it wouldn't abandon him.

So he did what it wanted; told it what it wanted to hear; what it wanted him to see. All around him they were falling. His own fate reenacted over and over. The sight that had been so sudden and shocking and final that it had embedded in his psyche with the force of a bullet. _Thee_ bullet. The one that tore tender throats open.

All around him, his colleagues, dying. Necks spurting geysers of gore. One by one. Not a quick death. Aware enough to know why their sight was dimming…their voices rasping…their bodies refusing to respond to frantic brain-screams to move, Move, _MOVE!_

Hotch had seen it happen to one of his own. The image had gone deep. As deep as guilt. As deep as mortal terror.

Because Aaron remembered another time when Reid's life had been forfeit. Remembered watching it play out over the internet. A dirty cabin in a graveyard. An unsub caught in the misguided ravings of his psychopathy. _I knew then that it was my fault. I didn't teach him how to survive physical torture. Because I didn't think of him physically. It was his mental acuity I used. My fault if Reid dies. I had months…years…to make it right and I never did. Never taught him to survive pain...because pain's the worst...because I didn't want to...because it scares me...because I'm a COWARD!  
_

Hotch watched Reid fall and felt the side of his own neck explode…

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was hard to see his leader like this.

Reid felt his own lips quivering in sympathy. It was time to end it.

"Alright, _Aaron_…listen to me…listen…" Hotch's pupils pulsed. A part of Spencer's mind registered the reaction. _I was right: he's auditory. He responds to things he can hear more than visions. Voices move him. And can control him. And can drive him mad…_

"Make it stop now, Aaron. Make it all stop…make it all go away…How will you do that?...Tell me…tell me…tell me how you make it stop…stop…stop…Make it stop…stop…"

"_STOP_!"

The word tore itself from deep in Hotch's chest, roaring its way into the room.

Shocking Reid silent.

Shocking Hotch ashen and trembling.

Giving Morgan the excuse he needed to burst the door from its hinges as he rocketed to Reid's aid, tackling his stunned boss and, for the second time, igniting Hotch's primal fury.


	24. Voices

Morgan was torn.

His was a protective nature. In truth, he kept himself in prime physical condition not from vanity or the edge it gave him with the fairer sex, but because he saw himself as the force that would stand between his teammates and their imminent destruction. The thing is, he'd always imagined doing it in the line of duty…not after-hours in Rossi's home. And he'd always thought he would be acting against an unsub…not one of his own.

Morgan also had a subconscious hierarchy that ranked his teammates according to his perception of their vulnerability.

Reid was high on the scale of those most likely to need help.

Hotch was low.

But Hotch was the one Derek always kept in sight, because of another hierarchy: the one that judged who would take the most risks with his or her own life. The Unit Chief wasn't foolhardy. He wouldn't put himself in harm's way for some minor cause. However, he would lay down his life for victims, for his son, and for his team.

So it was with raging, but mixed emotions that Morgan responded to Hotch's guttural bellow that filled his mind with all manner of terrible possibilities. They flashed before him like a goad as he plunged through the doorway and slammed into Aaron, pinning him to the bed on which he and Reid had been sitting.

Hotch was foggy; his mind still trailing the vestiges of the semi-hypnotic thrall into which Spencer had led him. But his primal self recognized an attack when it laid him out flat on his back. Even as Morgan realized his error, Aaron's body writhed and struggled, a conduit for pure, instinctive fury.

The impact of the other two bounced Reid off the mattress. Scrambling to his feet, the young genius was livid with rage. "_Morgan_! What the hell?!"

"He roared! It sounded like he was out of control!" Derek's voice was strained with the effort to keep Hotch from getting the upper hand. "I thought you needed help!"

"I don't!" Nonetheless, Reid took a few steps back from the thrashing body trapped beneath Morgan's heavier weight. Growls and generally ferocious noises made it easier to believe Derek was wrestling a wild animal than their Unit Chief. It was a position Hotch, the skilled, shrewd fighter would have been able to get out of. But primal, deprived of reason, he was exhausting himself without gaining any advantage.

Reid took a step closer, trying to sound authoritative. "Let him go, Morgan. Now!"

"Are you nuts? He'd rip your head off…or mine!" Derek had managed to pin Hotch's arms down by gripping his wrists. The rest of the man's body continued to buck and twist. "And where's that gun? If he gets loose, I don't want it anywhere within reach!"

"I keep telling you…he won't think of fighting with tools. He's not thinking at all right now! Forget about the stupid gun!"

"Where…is…it!?" The words were gritted out as Morgan tried to keep his shoulders down, using them to subdue Hotch's upper body.

"Here…see?" Spencer lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing the butt of the weapon.

Derek's only response was an affirmative grunt as Hotch renewed his efforts to escape.

Reid's lips pressed together. Coming to a decision, he pulled the gun out, strode to the doorway and tossed it into the hall. "There. It's gone. No more gun. Now…let him up?"

"No! He'll run out of steam pretty soon…I hope." Morgan tried to press more of his weight into the now-wheezing Unit Chief, hoping to wear him out just that much faster.

"Okay. That's enough." Reid couldn't take much more of what seemed like needless humiliation in the overpowering of his leader. He came as near as he dared to the struggling bodies, leaning in close. Hotch's head whipped from side to side as well as it could beneath Morgan's chest. Holding his breath, Reid timed his move. When Aaron's face turned toward him, he slipped long-fingered hands against it, bracketing the lean cheeks, using all his strength to hold the head steady.

"Hotch…Hotch…_Aaron!_…listen to me, _Aaron_…listen…listen…" It was taking less effort to keep the Unit Chief's eyes trained on his own. _Maybe he's still in that place I took him…where __**Lewis**__ took him. I'm just a follower…_ "Listen, Aaron…slow down…s-l-o-w down…you're safe…safe…no one can hurt you…close your eyes and just listen to my voice…close your eyes…"

Hotch's lids fluttered, then dropped. His breathing was still rough and he still struggled, but it wasn't as frenzied. Morgan could feel the difference.

"Hey!...He's quieting down…Good goin'…"

"Shhhhh!" Reid shushed his teammate. Knowing Hotch's proclivity for voices and all things auditory, he didn't want the tenuous connection broken, or even challenged. "Aaron…listen…the danger is gone…all gone…you're safe…there's no pain…nothing can hurt you…safe…safe…s-a-f-e…listen to my voice…follow it out…follow it…safe…safe…come home, Aaron…come home…"

Morgan hardly dared breathe. Hotch had quieted. He could still feel the man's labored breathing as his chest and ribs expanded and contracted, but it was more from exertion than panic. Slowly, with the utmost care, he levered himself up an inch…then two when Aaron didn't take advantage by renewing his struggles. At last, Derek moved off of his boss, although he kept ahold of the man's wrists. _Just in case…_

He glanced at Reid. Their eyes met. The young genius shook his head. _Don't speak._ He didn't want any noise…especially anyone else's voice…intruding on the fragile calm he had managed to establish.

After a while, Hotch's breathing deepened. His muscles went lax.

"He's asleep." Morgan risked whispering.

Releasing his hold on Aaron's face, Reid straightened. "He didn't get much sleep and this is the second time he's gone, well…berserk…primal. He's exhausted. We should let him rest."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

…_listen to my voice…follow it out…follow it…safe…safe…come home, Aaron…come home…_

It was soothing. Hotch let it fill his mind, his hearing. His body was used up, his energy depleted. He let himself go.

And as soon as he did, he heard it. The throaty chuckle. Evil. Insidious.

_I'm here, Aaron. I'll always be here. Always._ It trailed off into distant laughter.

In the dark place where sleep had taken him, Hotch's psyche whimpered and tried to make itself as small as possible so _HE_ wouldn't notice it.

But it was useless. _HE_ was around every corner…seeping out of every shadowy crack…whispering the words that renewed the visions…of necks bursting…of pain…of helpless agony…

Hotch muttered in his sleep. Turning on his side, he curled in on himself.

No place was safe, but it was the best he could do.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From the doorway, Morgan and Reid watched their leader snuggle down.

"Think he'll be alright now, Pretty Boy?"

Spencer shrugged. "I hope so. He's sleeping anyway, and that's good. We'll see when he wakes up."

They closed the door and went downstairs to find Rossi.


	25. A Deal on the Table

A wide, smug grin stretched Peter Lewis's lips.

He'd known he could rely on his powers of concentration to excavate the information. His brain and what he could do, and _had_ done, by virtue of its superiority were the only trustworthy things in his universe.

_Well…__**that**__ and a life sentence surrounded by the mental equivalent of well-trained dogs, which I utterly refuse!_

Rossi's phone number wavered before Lewis's mind's eye. As he knew it eventually would, it resolved into crystal clarity. _Got it! _

They'd taken his watch, but he could gage the time of day. _Morning. A little before noon._ It was as good a time as any to see if he'd have more success reaching the senior agent of the BAU than he had its leader.

Lewis raised his voice. "Guard! Sir? May I please try my phone call again? Please?"

He adopted his most ingratiating expression as a uniformed jailer approached.

He had no idea how unsettling they found his mirthless smile and icy, untouched eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi opted to stay downstairs while Reid examined Hotch.

He shared Morgan's concerns, but felt his presence would be a matter of too many chefs in a one-cook kitchen. Besides, he was tired. He made fresh coffee and discussed things of negligible import with a nonetheless attentive Mudgie.

He was just beginning to consider dragging upstairs to his bedroom in hopes of a catnap, when all hell broke loose. Dave froze, cup halfway to lip, when Hotch's deep baritone gave voice to what didn't even sound human. More like a combination bear/lion issuing a warning to the world at large. It was followed by pounding footsteps, a door slamming back on its hinges, and a tremendous thud he would later find out was a result of Morgan taking Hotch down onto the mattress.

Rossi abandoned his coffee and sprinted for the staircase.

That was when his phone went off, demanding attention when he had little to spare. He pulled the device from his pocket and answered without bothering to check caller ID.

"Rossi here…" Dave was taking the stairs two steps at a time.

"Ah…good. Agent Rossi, this is Peter Lewis." The voice was velvety smooth, oily…bringing things unpleasant and things unclean to mind. "I think I have something you need… We should talk…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time Rossi ended the call with Lewis, things had quieted upstairs.

Dave resumed his ascent, but was met by Morgan and Reid in the hallway just outside Hotch's room. All three looked troubled for different reasons.

"What's up, man? You look like you got bad news…" Derek frowned at the expression on Rossi's face.

"Later. First tell me how it went." The older man nodded in Hotch's direction. "How's he doing? What was all that commotion I heard?"

"I don't know" Reid shrugged at the same time he gave Morgan a disapproving look. "All I can say is I'm willing to bet that a modified kind of NLP _was_ the technique Lewis used on Hotch. I thought I was getting somewhere with him, but then…" Shaking his head, he narrowed his eyes at Derek.

"Hey. I thought you were in trouble. I'm sorry, okay? I'd do it again given the same circumstances." Morgan tried for an injured air, but he had to admit that if Spencer managed to calm Hotch in the end, he probably would have been able to take care of himself without Derek's intervention.

Rossi rubbed a hand over his weary face. "Whatever happened, you two can point fingers at each other later. How's Hotch now? Better?"

"Well, he's sleeping, so that's a good thing." Morgan looked to the young genius for corroboration.

"Maybe." Reid couldn't help feeling the session had granted him a look inside a cage, but not the key to open it. "Sleep is good; helps sort things out, like I've said before. But…" He looked down at his feet, lips beginning to twist and churn in the way that told his colleagues he was distressed.

"Spit it out, Pretty Boy."

"I'm not sure if he's better." Reid gave a dejected sigh. "I don't think I did any lasting good. If I had, he wouldn't have gone all…you know…" He glanced at Morgan. "…all out of control and unthinking again."

Rossi's shoulders sagged. "Do you need more time? Is there anything else you could try? Or any other solutions, other methods that might help? Anything?"

The other two exchanged concerned glances. There was an edge of desperation to Dave's inquiry. Reid fidgeted, chewing his lip again. "I don't have any ideas right now. Let me do some more research. And let's see how Hotch feels when he wakes up." His voice dropped, less like talking to his teammates; more as though he were thinking out loud. "Maybe it'd be worth it to interview Peter Lewis and see if I can glean some direction that way…"

Rossi's sharp intake of air caught their attention. "I hope it doesn't come to that, but…" He glanced toward Hotch's closed door. "…let's go downstairs."

Reid and Morgan followed their host to the living room, feeling increasingly uneasy. Derek broke the silence first.

"So what's goin' on that you don't want Hotch to hear?"

Rossi perched on the edge of his sofa, too tense to assume a more comfortable position. "While you boys were roughhousing up there, I got a phone call." He gave each agent a significant look. "Peter Lewis."

"What? Why? What's he doing calling _you_?" Derek leaned forward from where he was sitting, anxious for an answer. The vision of the unsub's smug satisfaction as he'd been taken away was still sharp in his memory. So were Lewis's taunts about what he'd done to their Unit Chief.

Reid felt his breath shorten and his stomach roll. "He wants to use Hotch as a bargaining chip. That's it, isn't it, Rossi? He's gonna hold Hotch's mental health over us to get whatever it is he wants. Right?"

All Dave could do was nod…

…and hope that the team genius could think of a way around giving Lewis access to their leader.


	26. Rest In Pain

Hotch wandered in a grey, foggy, trackless wasteland.

After a time, he realized he _wasn't_ wandering. He was being led. The soft, venomous murmuring that was always with him…had been since his run-in with Peter Lewis was bringing him along with it. It was at once coaxing and commanding. Irresistible and irritating. Omnipresent and overwhelming.

It still had things it wanted to show him. He sensed it bouncing about before him, leading the way. Puppy eager and proud…_See? See what I did? See? Aren't I a good boy? See?_

When Hotch felt something bark his shin, he looked down. The billowing mists and vapors parted. It was a headstone. Unable to close his eyes or look away, he read the inscription.

Sickened, he lifted his gaze at the whispering voice's command. But he already knew what he'd see, stretching into the distance. Infinite and instantly readable in the weird way of dreams. Two more stones. One for each male member of his team.

But the one nearest…the one he knew would be the first, because he'd seen it happen in a fount of gore in the waking world…was Reid's. Hotch stared. The inscriptions faded, then curled back into fresh existence so that he could watch them as they were being written, engraved by an invisible will before his eyes. Each one the same, except for the name of the coffined body lying below.

'Shot In The Neck. Rest In Pain.'

Mercifully, the force controlling him let Aaron turn away once it felt he'd had enough time to appreciate its work. Once it had gloated its fill. He was compelled to move in another direction.

The mist gradually turned a curious, wet pink. A figure began to coalesce out of it.

A mirror.

Hotch paused before himself, watched his neck open, a fountain of red spraying out, giving the mist its rosy tincture…coloring it with the pulse of his ebbing life. He put his hands up and tried to contain the flood. Pressed desperately. Rasping a hoarse cry for help..Help…HELP!

Hot liquid squirted between his fingers.

His efforts were useless.

_I may as well die. I didn't protect my team. They died for me. I may as well…I'm their leader. I should have gone first…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

With a harsh gasp, Hotch awoke drenched in his own sweat, wiping it away with frantic hands.

Thankful it wasn't blood.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So what exactly are Lewis's terms?" A scowl had taken up permanent residence on Morgan's brow.

He and Rossi were ensconced on the couch in the living room. Reid had adjourned to the computer in Dave's study where he was speeding through all manner of sites devoted to brainwashing, psychology and mind control techniques. His teammates were leaving him alone, the better to explore for some solution that could prevent a reunion between Hotch and the author of his nightmares.

Rossi's response came out on a weary sigh. "I'm not sure I understood. You guys were doing your impression of a ground zero, cataclysmic earthquake upstairs, and I'm on almost no sleep since this whole thing began. So I might have missed something."

"Best guess?"

"He said he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in prison. I told him we didn't have the kind of pull to get a life sentence commuted to something lesser. Not for a serial killer who shows absolutely no remorse, at least." Dave shook his head, trying to clear it. "That's when it got a little weird. He said he wouldn't think of asking for anything we couldn't provide. Only idiots would waste their time that way…the inference being that I'm one of the idiots for suggesting it."

"So what does he want? A minimum security facility? That's not gonna happen either."

"All he said was the only way we can get Hotch back is if we let them meet. He said he could promise that he wouldn't hurt Aaron. He'd free him. And that what he'd ask for in exchange would be simple and doable. And he was sure no one would object to it."

"No. No, we can't do that. Not without knowing more." Morgan couldn't stop shaking his head in small, insistent arcs. "Lewis is crazy. I'd rather have Hotch go through psychotherapy for the rest of his life than have to face that sick bastard again."

"Don't you think that's _my_ call?" The low rumble froze Rossi and Morgan where they sat.

Hotch stood in the living room entry, looking waifish and pale, barefoot in his sweats.

But also looking scared and very, very determined.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid rubbed his eyes with an impatient hand.

He was getting nowhere fast.

The discipline of psychology in general defied formulaic equations. The human brain was too complex for quantification. You could trace what sections produced physical reactions and which served general purposes, but feelings and fears and personality were beyond the grasp of scientific certainty.

He'd known that all along. But having recognized two of the means Lewis had employed…NLP and drugs…and seeing the end result in Hotch's behavior, Reid had hoped he could fill in the gaps. Like a mathematical equation that supplied one variable and the end sum. He groaned, stretching the kinks out of his spine.

_But this is no 1 + 2 + x = 9 kind of problem. And Hotch is no number that stays static and lets you get a grip on where it factors in. Good God…the things he's been through already make him uniquely vulnerable._ Reid let his phenomenal memory play back the bits and pieces he'd witnessed over the years. One stood out with special, life-changing horror. _Foyet. He struck at Hotch on an emotional and a physical level. But he never got inside Hotch's head the way Lewis has. I need to find out more about the weapon that was used to violate Hotch __**this**__ time. _

"I wish it were as simple as a knife…" Slouching, Reid muttered to himself. "And I wish I could see the wounds and know they'd heal with time…_watch_ them heal..."

"Well, you can't." The familiar rumbling voice of authority jerked Spencer upright. He twisted around.

Hotch was at the door; Morgan and Rossi a step behind, like an honor guard.

None of them looked happy, but Hotch was the one Reid focused on. He could practically taste the fear rolling off the man.

"Reid, I need you to help me with something."

Spencer's eyes darted to his teammates. Rossi looked resigned. Morgan looked sick, complexion tinged with grey.

"Sure, Hotch. What?"

When Aaron told him, Reid felt sick, too.


	27. On the Eve of Battle

Reid wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Hotch, no! Give it more time. Give _me_ more time! Please! There are all kinds of things I can try and…"

"And it'll be a matter of hit-or-miss. And I don't know how much more I can take…how much longer I can hold on." Hotch stood tall and straight, but there was something brittle about him; as though he were glass and might easily shatter. It felt as though he were exerting tremendous effort to hold himself together. His movements were halting and tentative; muscles strained from his latest altercation with Morgan. All in all, he seemed too fragile to be pitting himself against anything or anyone.

"But you don't know what Lewis will do! You can't trust him."

"Listen to Reid, Hotch. It's not the same as an unsub holding a gun on you. It's more like the bullet's already been fired and you're walking into its path. Don't do it, man."

Aaron bowed his head, massaging his temples with trembling hands. "You guys don't understand. Yes, Morgan, the bullet's been fired. But it's already found me. It's already inside me. There's nothing more he can do."

"That's not true, Hotch." Rossi hated seeing his friend in pain, but there _were_ worse things. "Lewis made otherwise sane people do things they would never have considered. For God's sake, he tried to make a father kill his own son. He almost succeeded. As it was, he's responsible for that man killing himself instead. He left that boy to grow up without his father. As bad as it is now, there are still things he can do to you. Or make you do."

Hotch's voice was rough with repressed rage. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think it's on my mind every second of every hour? I hear him, Dave. All the time. The things he made me see…I can try to put them away. Compartmentalize them. But I can't get away from his voice! I can't! And if it doesn't stop, I…I…" He couldn't finish, turning mournful eyes on his colleagues instead, hoping they knew him well enough to read his pain. And to understand that his options had narrowed down to a single, dreadful path.

"Let's just say I understand why that father killed himself."

Silence fell after Hotch's bleak statement.

It made Lewis's voice all the louder in Aaron's mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So what are his conditions? Did he give any besides having Hotch present?"

It was clear the Unit Chief's mind was made up. There _would_ be a meeting with Peter Lewis. If his teammates couldn't talk him out of it, the next step was to control it as best they could.

Rossi shook his head. "All he said was he wanted to see Hotch. I don't think we should give him the chance to impose any other conditions. _If_ we're going to do this…" He cast a doubtful look Aaron's way, hoping against hope that there was a chance in hell he'd change his mind. Hotch's stony regard crushed the last dregs of that delusion. "…we should just show up and be in the room waiting for him. But guys…" He sighed. "…I need some sleep first."

Rossi stood beside Hotch, searching his eyes. "Can you hold out a little while longer, Aaron? I want to be at my best going into this."

"Sure." Hotch licked dry lips. "There's something I need to do before we go, too. Let's plan on tomorrow, then."

"All of us? The whole team?" Reid's shoulders were slumped in defeat. He'd really thought he could find a way out of the maze Lewis had built in Hotch's brain, given time. He felt he'd failed his leader by not doing so. "I'd feel better if the whole team was there."

"No." Hotch looked from face to face. "You were right about not being able to trust him, Reid. If he says I'm safe, it might be true as part of whatever bargain he's trying to strike. But he didn't guarantee safety for anyone else. I say the fewer of us that have contact with him, the better."

"I'm gonna be in that room with you, Hotch. You can't stop me. Call it insubordination if you want, but I'm not leaving your side." Morgan folded his arms, defiant.

The two alpha males locked eyes, taking each other's measure. After a moment, Hotch managed a weak smile. "Okay. But don't confront him. Don't engage. Let me take point."

Derek nodded. "But if I think he's pulling a fast one, if you look like he's doing something bad to you, I'm pulling you out of there. By force, if necessary."

Aaron gave Derek a wry look as he rubbed one shoulder, sore from having been pinned down. "Well, he's gonna do _something_. We know that. So don't jump the gun. And the only reason I'm letting you stay by me, Morgan, is that…" He swallowed. "…if I do lose control, I already know you can handle it."

Derek's voice shook with the intensity of his hate for Peter Lewis. "I _will_ keep you safe, Hotch. That's a promise. Whatever I have to do."

"I know. But if only one of us walks out of there…"

"Then he'll be carrying the other. That's how it is, man."

Hotch knew better than to argue.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There wasn't much more to say. At least, nothing that would change their Unit Chief's mind.

_And we don't know but Hotch agreeing to this is something that bastard planted in him_, Morgan fumed in silence. _At least he's not getting rid of me. I'll take Lewis out if I have to._

Rossi was ready to turn in, knowing Morgan and Reid would look after Hotch. He was too tired to argue anymore. They had decided not to tell the distaff half of the team what they were planning. Aaron wanted to keep his team's contact with Lewis at a minimum. He said that he'd feel better and be able to concentrate on protecting himself more, if he knew at least some of his team were out of the unsub's reach.

Reid refused to get any rest. He was determined to continue searching for something that would let them help Hotch and allow them to cancel the meeting with Lewis. He would be up all night. _Since Hotch won't even let me in the room, it won't matter if I'm running on fumes. If I'm going to be of any use at all, it'll be beforehand digging through data._

Morgan insisted on feeding Hotch and making sure he got some form of rest, even if it was riddled with bad dreams. _Gonna make sure m'man is in the best shape possible for this. And I swear to God, if Lewis looks like he's gonna try something shady, I'll kill him with my bare hands._

"Get some rest, Hotch." Derek tilted his chin toward the stairs and the bedroom at the top.

"I will. I have to do something first."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No…thanks." Aaron saw the worry etched across Morgan's brow. "I just want to talk to Jack. One, uh…more…time."

Derek watched his Bossman head for the landline in Rossi's den. Hotch hadn't said it, but Morgan could almost hear it anyway. _He was gonna say 'one __**last**__ time.' _ The agent's jaw tightened.

_I promise you, Hotch. You'll be back home with your son tomorrow night. Whatever it takes…I __**promise**__…_


	28. Masterpiece

As if things weren't difficult enough, the next morning Rossi had to field calls from J.J. and Kate, asking after Hotch's wellbeing.

J.J. had tried contacting the Unit Chief directly, but hadn't been able to raise him. She didn't know that the men had confiscated his phone and were shielding Aaron from all incoming calls thanks to Peter Lewis's initial attempts to reach him.

Rossi told both ladies the same thing. "He needs rest. I'm gonna make sure he gets it, so I'll probably stick close to home today. I'll tell him you called when he wakes up, though." Dave was a smooth liar.

Morgan had a harder time when Garcia phoned, asking him if he'd heard how their fearless leader was. Lying to Penelope was something that went against the grain. And Derek's grain ran all the way through him. He decided to trade on their unique friendship instead.

"Mama, you have to promise me you'll keep this to yourself. No telling J.J. or Kate, okay?"

"Wha-why? What's going on?" The tech analyst's voice wobbled with concern.

"We're gonna try what I thought might work, you know? Taking Hotch to see Lewis, but…I'm not so sure anymore." Morgan rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. Shaving hadn't seemed a priority this morning. "Thing is, Lewis called and asked to meet with Hotch. That kinda throws me off. I thought gettin' them together would push Bossman past whatever that bastard did to him, would make him mad…and it might…but not in the way I was hopin'." He faded out, mind running over possible scenarios involving the Unit Chief turning into an attack animal.

"But, shouldn't J.J. and Kate be there? And me? I could come and then Mon Capitan would know we're all behind him…"

"No! You don't know what that dude's like, Baby Girl. Hotch doesn't want anyone else getting close enough for Lewis to use them like they're game pieces. So this stays between us. You have to keep away and let us see how it plays out."

Several beats of silence passed before Garcia spoke in a small voice. "You sound scared. So now I'm scared, too."

"I can't tell you not to worry, Mama. You will no matter what. But you know I'll stand by Hotch and I'll be all the strength he needs. You know that, right?"

"I do…I do…" He could hear her throat tightening with emotion. "Derek, be careful and call me as soon as you can?"

"You know I will."

" 'Kay…Bye…I guess…"

Morgan couldn't hang up knowing Garcia would be tortured by her overactive imagination and fears. He had to give her something to occupy her time. "Baby Girl? When I come back, could you have some comfort food waiting? Like…chocolate chip cookies, maybe?"

"Mmm-hmmm…" It was an affirmative murmur, but he could tell she'd hung up before the tears could break through.

Still, Morgan knew she'd stay busy doing something that would calm her and help her resist the siren call of her cell…and of J.J.…and of Kate.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi was somewhat refreshed, although he hadn't slept well.

Reid, however, was bleary and irritable.

He'd spent the night combing through massive amounts of data, and had come up empty. He snapped at Morgan's suggestion he go home and let the others play escort to Hotch.

"No way, Morgan! I'm in this to the end." His voice was thready with emotion and fatigue. "And just because I didn't find a way out yet, doesn't mean I'm useless. I've got everything I researched for the last 8 hours in my head. Maybe some of it'll come in handy. I'm not leaving."

Derek backed down. You never knew when some magical process in the genius's mind might bear fruit. One could always hope.

_And sometimes that's __**all**__ one can do…_ "Alright, Pretty Boy. You're in."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch refused breakfast.

He moved like an automaton, partly from the abuse his muscles had suffered at the hands of both the unsub and Morgan, but mostly because he was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the hissing whispers and taunts assaulting his mind.

There was nothing he could do to prepare for the meeting with Peter Lewis. He just wanted to get it over with and find peace on the other side…one way or another.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan drove.

Reid kept him sullen company in the front, leaving the backseat for Rossi and Hotch. Dave kept a wary eye on his best friend.

"You're not obligated to go through with this, Aaron."

"Dave, I don't have a choice! You can't understand…" Hotch spat the words out, voice gritty.

"I'm just saying that so you'll know you have the freedom to roll with the punches. We'll support you no matter _what_ you decide…no matter _when_ you decide it."

Hotch's response was to huddle into the corner against the door, pulling in on himself with only an unsub's mutterings winding through his mind for company.

Morgan studied the Unit Chief in the rearview mirror and grew more concerned with each passing mile. _He's getting desperate. And desperate men make mistakes…mistakes in judgment…mistakes in action…I'll have to keep a tight hold on him the whole time we're there._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Up and at 'em, Lewis. You got visitors."

The guard stood back after unlocking the prisoner's cell. He didn't know what it was exactly, but something about this inmate made him feel unclean after contact. Even verbal contact.

Peter Lewis's satisfied smirk made him look like one of the villains in the comic books the guard's 12 year old son lived for. _Creepy. Creepy and oily and always plotting. _"C'mon, Lewis. Haven't got all day."

Lewis would have liked more time to savor the moment. _I __**knew**__ Hotchner would come. I __**knew**__ he'd bring backup. Poor, simple, stupid man._

He sighed and rolled off his bunk, consoling himself with the thought that even if he was being hurried along now, once he had the FBI agent before him, he could take his time. I said I'd free him; _I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy myself first, though. And really, when you get down to it…they have no choice._

The leader of the BAU with a tattered mind; it would be a delightful image to preserve in his eidetic memory.

Lewis sauntered into the corridor, moving at a leisurely pace…using the time to recall the tragic, brown eyes of the man he decided might very well be his masterpiece. _My magnum opus. My sad, little Aaron…_

XXXXXXXXXXX

When the guard opened the interrogation room door and ushered Lewis in, the unsub smiled, shaking his head at the predictability of these poor, ignorant, posturing people.

In a heartbeat, he'd taken in the picture of dejected defeat that Hotch presented. That's what gave rise to the smile. He stopped short of the chair toward which the jailer was pushing him, bracing himself, resistant to moving forward. "Hello, Agent Hotchner. Nice to see you again."

Aaron shivered. He was seated. Morgan stood at his side and slightly behind him, one hand resting on Hotch's shoulder. Derek felt the tremor run through his boss; saw the glee in Lewis's eyes as he reveled in the man's discomfort.

The unsub sighed. "I'm afraid this won't do. Agent Hotchner and I will meet in private…or not at all." His smooth, oily grin widened. "And you _need_ me, don't you, Mr. Hotchner? Yeeeesssss…you certainly do. By now, you can think of little else…" It was all Lewis could do to keep a giggle at bay.

"What?! _**No**_! That's not gonna happen." Morgan bristled, taking a tighter grip on Aaron. "No way, Lewis. It's this, or nothing."

The unsub shrugged, unable to wipe the smirk from his face. "Guess it's nothing then. Have a nice life, Agent Hotchner." He turned, moving toward the door, relishing the panic he knew must be building inside Aaron's mind at the prospect of continuing in his present mental state.

"Wait!" Hotch was visibly trembling now, desperation palpable.

"Hotch, no!" Morgan knew what was coming, just as Lewis did.

"I'll see him alone." Aaron's eyes locked on Derek's, pleading. "I have to. I _have_ to."

"I promise I won't harm him, Agent." Lewis pressed his advantage. "I promise on…" The smirk faded, replaced by a painful sincerity Morgan hadn't seen this man display up to now. "…on the graves of my family. I will not hurt him. I'll free him."

"Morgan…please…"

Derek couldn't take the pain in Hotch's eyes anymore. He studied both men and came to a decision. "Okay. But I'll be right outside that door; my hand on the knob. If I hear _any_thing…" He ended with a threatening look that lingered on Lewis.

"I won't hurt him." The unsub continued to smile as the guard and the FBI agent made their reluctant way out, leaving him alone with his masterpiece.

Peter Lewis gave a happy, satisfied little sigh, and took a seat opposite Hotch.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi and Reid watched the drama play itself out from the viewing room just around the corner.

The door jerked open. Morgan looked in, anger and protective ferocity evident in every abrupt movement.

"You guys look sharp. I'm right outside the door. You see anything…_any_thing!...suspicious, you yell. I'll be in there before that bastard knows what hit him." He left the door ajar as he returned to his post.

Dave and Spencer exchanged worried looks, then focused on the occupants of the interrogation room.

XXXXXXXXX

Something was bothering Reid.

Nibbling at the edges of his awareness.

Since it wouldn't come forth, he chose to ignore it. Sometimes that worked better than struggling to grasp what was just beyond reach. Sometimes the thing-in-hiding would poke its nose forth like a timid, woodland creature emerging from the underbrush, if you left it alone.

It happened.

As the unsub took his time, gloating over what he'd done, the woodland creature nosed its way out.

Then it bounded forth.

Reid's eyes widened. _No…oh, __**NO**__!_

Before Rossi knew what was happening, the young genius bolted to the door, yelling.

"Morgan! Get Lewis out! I know what he's planning! _GO_!"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Derek barreled through the interrogation room door like a force of nature, startling both men within.

Heedless of everything but Reid's cries, he collared Lewis and yanked him backwards into the corridor. Spencer was at the door; Rossi in close pursuit.

"Get him away from there." Spencer reached in and pulled the door shut, leaving Hotch in isolation.

"He'll go insane if you don't let me help him." Lewis twisted in Morgan's grip. "I already said I won't hurt him!"

Reid turned on the unsub, mind and heart racing. "It's okay. You'll get your meeting. We just need a minute. My fault. I forgot something, that's all." He gave Derek a look that was mixed relief and a plea to play along. "Wait out here. I'll be just a minute."

"What the…?" Morgan looked to Rossi for an explanation.

The older agent shrugged and then followed Reid as he went to Hotch, closing the door behind him...

...leaving a very annoyed, very dissatisfied Lewis to wonder what they could possibly do that would make any difference in the way he _knew_ things would play out.


	29. Snap!

Hotch felt as though he'd been given a glimpse of salvation only to have it snatched away.

And by his own teammates!

Before he could muster the words to express his anger, disappointment and his ever-increasing _need_ to talk to Lewis…for them to _please_ bring him back!...Reid was kneeling at his side; Rossi close at hand.

"Hotch, you have to trust me. Just let me do this and then you can take your meeting. Trust me, Hotch…trust me…"

Spencer could see the Unit Chief was on his last nerve, his last mental gasp. More than anything Reid wanted to see him relieved of his pain. So he refrained from going into any long explanations. It was an unusual tactic for the young genius. Normally, his overactive brain spewed information faster than the physical mechanics of speech could accommodate translating it from thought to spoken word. Usually, one of his teammates would have to rein him in with a sharp reminder to cut to the chase.

Now, Reid's lack of accompanying dialogue impressed Rossi with his urgency.

Dave watched the young genius at work and understood _why_ he was acting the way he was; in the interest of letting Lewis get on with the business of freeing Aaron. But he was perplexed by _what_ Reid was doing.

"Trust me, Hotch. Just trust me…"

Within seconds, he was done, rising from where he'd been crouched. "Okay." Spencer looked at Rossi. "Let's let them back in. I'll explain when we're out of here." Reid hesitated, placing an apologetic hand on Hotch's shoulder. "I'll explain to you later, too, Hotch. It'll be okay. Trust me."

With one last worried glance at their trembling leader, the two agents exited.

Hotch's mind was under siege. He didn't really care _what_ Spencer had done to him.

He only wanted the clamorous noise in his brain to end.

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi and Reid brushed past a disconcerted Morgan and a suspicious Lewis.

"Sorry about that," Spencer muttered in passing. "My fault. You guys can go ahead now."

Derek watched his teammates hustle down the corridor toward the viewing room. Just before they turned the corner, Rossi glanced back, shrugging, but also giving a thumbs up.

Morgan shook the strangeness of the experience from his thoughts. Pushing the unsub back into the room, he took a wary look around. Nothing had changed. Hotch still looked beaten, slumped in his seat, hands below the tabletop, folded in his lap.

Derek pushed Lewis down into his chair, glaring. "Like I said, I'll be right outside." He gave Hotch one more anxious look before returning to his post in the hallway.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Reid was jittery with excitement, practically suctioned onto the one-way mirror overlooking bedraggled Hotch and the gloating unsub.

"Okay, kid. Spill it."

Eyes fixed on Lewis, Spencer's words came out in a rapid-fire rush.

"It all makes sense. It all came together. Rossi, he said he dreads life imprisonment. He didn't commit suicide by cop because he wanted to toy with Hotch. He couldn't resist that last little dig at him, and he couldn't resist being there to tell Morgan he'd won when they arrested him. But he never counted on life imprisonment! So now, he's going to commit a _version_ of suicide by cop after all. He's going to provoke Hotch. Out of control and in a primal rage, Hotch'll kill him. It'll all be on camera, so Lewis'll consider the final victory his when Hotch loses his career and maybe does time for murder. Even if he's not here to see it, Lewis's last thought will be that he won. That's important to him; that kind of belief in his own superiority.

"He's playing with Hotch now; his last victim."

Rossi frowned. "But he said he'd free Hotch. How can he do that if he's dead?"

Reid gave his head an impatient shake. "The anchor. Whatever he embedded in Hotch that'll set him off, probably had a secondary facet…a backdoor…an escape clause. I'm betting once the rage wears off, Hotch'll be free of it. If I'm right, he'll remember what the trigger was afterwards. It'll have lost its power and he'll be able to say it himself."

Dave took a deep breath, turning his attention to the interrogation room.

"Kid, I'm glad you're here...and I hope you're right."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis leered at Hotch.

"You don't look too well, Aaron. How've you been doing since our time together? Hard to believe it was only the day before yesterday. How've you been? Huh?"

Hotch swallowed the fearful lump in his throat. "Why? Why did you do this? We know why you killed all those people…why you wanted revenge. But why me? Why?"

The unsub leaned back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. "Because I could."

Aaron felt tears gathering behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut to try and hide what he considered humiliating weakness before the enemy. "You said you'd help me." One drop escaped from beneath his lids, trailing a slow, traitorous way down his cheek.

"Awwww…Poor Aaron. I will. But if you're going to just sit there and cry, this won't be any fun at all."

Hotch couldn't help it. He was ragged inside. Hearing Lewis's voice made the sounds in his mind louder and more insistent. When he'd talked to his son, Jack, the night before, he'd strained to hear every nuance, every tone of his boy's chattering, happy voice. He'd hoped against hope that his love for his son would help him overwrite Lewis. But it didn't. Right now, right here, Hotch couldn't remember the sound of his own child. The unsub's voice drowned out everything. All memory. All thought. All hope.

Hotch didn't care anymore. He was beaten. He laid his head down on the table and refused to even look at his adversary.

Lewis frowned. "Aaron! Agent Hotchner! Come on! Look at me! Talk to me! Tell me what it's like! Say _something_!"

Hotch kept his eyes closed, letting the occasional tear have its way with him.

XXXXXXX

Out in the hall, Morgan strained to hear, but Bossman had gone silent.

In the viewing room, Rossi held his breath, heart aching for Aaron; every fiber of his being longing to go to his friend's aid.

Reid tensed. "This is it," he whispered. "Here…it…comes…"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lewis's posture slumped. He was nearing his endgame and he knew it. When everything came down to it, he didn't want to die. And he was scared that this would be a painful way to go.

But it was better than the slow, intellectual torture of imprisonment.

His features slackened, reflecting his determination as well as a fatal acceptance. He leaned forward toward Hotch. His voice was very soft and sibilant, but clear when he whispered…

"I'm not going away." A fractional pause, then… "Ever."

The voices in Aaron's head screamed, crescendoing upward. A shutter fell between the Unit Chief's reason and his deepest, churning, animal self, giving the beast-part permission to run rampant. Blind with fury, Hotch lunged…

…and was brought up short by the handcuffs Reid had used to secure him to the table…


	30. Foiled

Peter Lewis had been prepared to die.

Horribly.

Violently.

His elegant intellect had found a niche in which to hide while the weapon of destruction that he'd molded out of an FBI agent completed its assigned task.

Lewis expected his neck to be snapped, or his throat to be torn out. He rather favored the former. It would be quick; virtually painless, he hoped. He was almost sure Hotch wouldn't tear his throat. Almost. He'd found such dread of bleeding neck wounds deep within the man's psyche, he was _almost_ certain that fear would prevent him from inflicting one. On the other hand, the primal instincts had been released. Unfettered, the agent's inner-animal might go for the quick victory of a torn jugular. If that happened, Lewis wanted to think that seeing what he'd done when he already blamed himself for a teammate's near-fatal neck injury would severe the last vestiges of Agent Hotchner's sanity, leaving him adrift with no hope of ever finding his moorings again.

But neck snapped or neck torn…either way, the ends would be accomplished. No prison time, and a punishing impact on the agent's life as Lewis's final farewell to the injustices of this world. And so fitting that his last blow should land on a representative of the flawed justice system.

Peter Lewis was prepared to die.

He did a mental retreat at the last second…right after enunciating the word that, when following the trigger-phrase, would remove the conditioning he'd imposed on his human weapon, because, after all, he'd promised. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the sound of the agent's rage swept over him, echoing through the interrogation room.

But then…

…everything went horribly, unexpectedly, impossibly wrong, wrong, wrong…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Before Lewis could realize what had happened, before he could dredge up the courage to put himself within Hotch's lethal reach…the door slammed open.

Once again Morgan shot through, adrenaline pumping in sync with the unleashed fury and the dull thudding that he'd thought must be Hotch pummeling the unsub to a cadaverous pulp. His surprised eyes registered the Unit Chief's cuffs at the same time Lewis did.

The unsub might have the superior mind, but in this case at least, superior physical ability was what mattered. Morgan grabbed Lewis and shoved him out the door into the waiting arms of one of the facility's guards, effectively ending all his hopes of escape at Hotch's hands.

Assured of the unsub's security, Derek turned back toward his thrashing, growling leader.

XXXXXXXXXX

Reid and Rossi hesitated only long enough to see the handcuffs bear up against Hotch's attack.

As one, they shot out of the viewing room and pelted down the corridor to where Lewis was waging an impotent struggle in his guard's hold, spitting epithets at one and all.

Rossi's first act was to pull the interrogation room door closed. As much as he wanted to go to Hotch's side, he couldn't help thinking Lewis might still have a hidden card to play; perhaps an embedded command that could still affect his victim.

"Get him out of here! _Now_!"

Dave waited while the guard dragged his ineffectually squirming prisoner away. Then, he and Reid burst into the room much as Morgan had.

It was a disturbing scene.

Hotch was yanking against his restraints, throwing himself away from them again and again with joint-damaging, bone-jarring force. Deprived of the target of his rage, he was waging a battle for his freedom much as any animal would. Derek stood off to the side, nursing a bloodied nose. He spared a glance for his teammates as they entered, but immediately returned his regard to Hotch.

"I tried to hold him like last time, but…" Morgan shook his head, wincing at the pain in his nose. "…but he's out of control. I can't get him down. Not without hurting him."

"We might have to let him wear himself out." Rossi's voice was faint. As much as he told himself that all men…all living creatures…harbored a primal aspect, it was troubling to see it manifest itself in gentle, quiet, contained Aaron.

Reid shook his head, moving closer one cautious step at a time. "He's hurting himself. Having Lewis, the one who set the anchor in his subconscious, so close must have been maddening. By the time he stops, he might…" Spencer didn't get to finish. A sickening pop was followed by Hotch's howl of pain and rage.

With the well-trained reflexes of the team they were, all three men converged on their Unit Chief, slipping through his defenses in the split-second his self-inflicted injury provided. Rossi and Morgan held Hotch down as his struggles weakened, his eyes glazing with pain and shock.

Reid slid practiced fingers over his boss. "He dislocated his shoulder." He took a steadying breath, trying to keep a wave of sympathetic nausea down. "I'll get help. You guys keep him as quiet as you can."

"Don't worry, Pretty Boy; I think he's passing out."

With mixed feelings of relief and horror for the whole situation, they watched Hotch's eyes dim; his struggles diminishing into abortive, almost reflexive spasms.

By the time Reid had procured medical aid, Aaron was mercifully unconscious.


	31. Unbroken Chain

With gentle, almost reverential hands, Reid unlocked the cuffs from Hotch's wrist.

It was hard to imagine the magnitude of emotion that had made the Unit Chief dislocate his own shoulder in his struggles. The medics had to ask Hotch's teammates to move back three times before their request registered.

Each agent was lost in his own thoughts. Each was reluctant to abandon his protective stance over Aaron's limp body.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan lurched to his feet, letting his fingers trail over Hotch's chest as he did so, taking comfort from the strong, adrenaline-fueled heartbeat still pounding its distress.

His mind drifted back to another time he'd seen the man in a killing fury. He'd never forget the sight. Hotch dipping his hands again and again into the gore that had been George Foyet's face. The sheer animal rage had shocked the others to a standstill; had sickened them. But Derek had thrown his arms around his boss and held on, pulling him off of the corpse he was savaging, murmuring what little comfort he could offer.

This was different. Somehow more disturbing despite the lack of a dead body.

This time there'd been no release of the demons dancing in Hotch's head. At least none that Morgan could feel.

Killing Foyet had burst the dam holding back Aaron's anger, hate, pain and fear. As awful as the murder scene had been, as steep the price of Haley's life, Morgan had known Hotch had been freed. He couldn't explain it, but he'd felt it in the man's body when he'd held him. He'd known there'd be sorrow and a deep period of mourning, but he'd been the only one who was sure Hotch would return to the BAU. A saddened, hurt man, but still Hotch.

This time, Derek didn't feel the same. It scared him. The image of an insidious infection slowly eating away at Bossman's mind wouldn't go away.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi struggled up from where he'd been kneeling beside his best friend, making room for the medics.

He noticed Morgan press two fingers down, lingering over Hotch's heart, and understood the impulse. As for Dave, he wanted to scoop the still body into a hug, and hold on tight, keeping the whole world at bay until Aaron was healed and could stand on his own. But it was wishful thinking.

The best they could all do now was stand by their leader's side and take their cues from him when it came to stitching up his psyche.

Rossi watched the EMTs securing Hotch for a trip to the hospital. The man's right arm was at an odd angle. As disturbing as it looked…as wrong…Dave almost wished there were _more_ physical injuries; that he could make some kind of deal and swap out the damaging influence Lewis had had on Hotch's mind in exchange for more visible hurts. More _heal_-able hurts.

_All we can do is wait now. When he comes to, he'll be the best judge of how he's doing. But I'll have to keep a close watch over him to be sure he isn't hiding his own damage. _Rossi sighed. _And either way, he'll be scared of what was done to him. That primal fear Lewis accessed was already in Hotch. He'll be more aware of it now. We'll have to do some compartmentalization exercises at the very least._

_But slow and easy. That'll be the way of things to come for a while, is my guess._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid unhooked his handcuffs from the iron loop on the table's underside; a provision to secure unpredictably violent inmates.

He watched Morgan's hand on Hotch's chest, knowing he was seeking out tactile evidence of the brave and faithful heart beating within. Spencer was more concerned about the Unit Chief's mental and emotional wellbeing.

_We won't be sure of anything until he wakes up. But I know the trigger phrase now. If Lewis didn't release him, I'll have to find a way to undo it. _He sighed as the gurney with Hotch strapped to the top was rolled out into the corridor.

_And the only way to be absolutely sure that he's free of it, will be for me to say it…to try and set him off._ Once more, Reid looked around. The furniture was bolted to the floor, but the chair Hotch had been in looked off kilter. _He raged against it so hard he bent it._ Reid swallowed.

_Before I test the trigger, we'll have to discuss some safety precautions._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch woke with a choked, strangled scream of pain when they reseated his shoulder in its socket.

For a frightening moment he didn't know where he was.

The hospital smells…the harsh, antiseptic lighting…the strange man working on him…the others holding onto him… His brain balked at the unfamiliar surroundings. But the worst of the pain was over quickly, and strong, insistent hands pressed him down and then held him in place until the doctor and his assistants were sure their patient was aware that he was being cared for…not tortured.

"Take it easy, Mr. Hotchner. You've had a rough time. Easy…easy…that's it…easy…atta boy…easy…"

"Where…? Where am I?"

"A hospital. Your friends are right outside. You dislocated your shoulder. Do you remember that?"

Hotch's head fell back on the pillow; his muscles un-tensing enough so his attendants felt safe gradually easing their hold on him. They'd been advised that this man had gone down fighting. It was always a prudent safeguard to be ready in case such patients regained consciousness _still_ fighting.

Aaron closed his eyes and let all the images and impressions settle for a minute.

The doctor began to relax as well, thinking his patient was understandably exhausted. Until the man spoke.

"I _do_ remember…I remember _every_thing…everything…" His voice was rough with emotion.

Silent tears began to trace their way down Hotch's gaunt cheeks. He kept his eyes shut and turned away from the light as best he could. But he couldn't turn away from his memories. From the vicious glee of Peter Lewis whispering his worst fear, bringing it out into the light where everyone would know it now…to his last recollection before passing out, of hitting Morgan, hearing his teammate grunt in pain, watching Derek's blood gush from his nose…Hotch remembered it all.

He sobbed in quiet shame and guilt.

Concerned, the doctor sent for the man's friends.

Clearly, there was more to this patient's story than he'd been told.


	32. Trigger

"You wanna tell me what's going on here?" The doctor gave each agent a fierce look in turn.

Reid, Rossi and Morgan had been sitting in the ER waiting room. Now, they exchanged concerned glances before they rose to their feet in unison.

"What do you mean?" Rossi tried to keep the fear out of his voice. His imagination made it difficult. Visions of Hotch waking up mentally damaged; so bad that it was detectable to a virtual stranger, despite Aaron's proclivity for hiding his hurts from the world…was unsettling.

"I mean that man is crying and it has nothing to do with the pain of his injury. What happened to him?" The doctor narrowed his eyes. "What did you do to him?"

"Hey!" Morgan would not tolerate suspicion when it came to his team's unconditional support, respect, and affection for their leader. "That man's been through more in the last two days than most of your patients will suffer in a lifetime. He's got a right to cry."

The physician took in the bandage medics had applied to the bridge of Morgan's nose…the eyes that were beginning to blacken. "Were _you_ the one he was fighting?"

Rossi had no desire to watch these men bristle and posture at each other. He pulled out his badge, flipping it open at the doctor's eye level. "This is official FBI business. You patient is an agent. So are we. We'd like to see him now."

The doctor backed off, but only marginally. "You can see him one at a time…" He gave Morgan a dark look. "…but not you. Not until he's calmer."

Derek scowled, which made his bruising eyes look hawkish and piercing, almost attaining the level of a Hotch-glare. But before he could voice an objection, Rossi stepped between the two men, effectively ending all debate concerning suitable visitors for Hotch. "Fine. Take me to him." He gave Morgan a parting glance filled with warning. _Behave yourself…_

Derek might have argued the point, but Reid's hand on his shoulder tempered the impulse. And the younger agent's next words claimed his complete attention.

"I know what the trigger is. I'm gonna test it on Hotch."

Visions of Spencer's slender physique pitted against the raw, animal rage Morgan had witnessed supplanted any quarrel with the ER doctor.

Suddenly there was an issue of more vital importance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi was conducted to a private corner where an alcove was shielded by curtains.

The doctor nodded, indicating Hotch was within.

Dave hesitated. He could hear an occasional soft sob. Clearly the sound of a man trying to muffle his sorrow and failing miserably. So very Hotch-like. He took a deep breath, pulled back the edge of one curtain just enough to slip through, and went to his friend.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan stared at Reid until the young genius dropped his amber gaze to the floor.

"No way, Pretty Boy. You're gonna tell me the trigger and _I'll_ be the one to pull it. No way you're gettin' anywhere near Hotch 'til we're sure it won't set him off."

"But I need to see if Lewis really did disarm him."

"Wait." Derek frowned. "Didn't you say that if Bossman was no longer under the influence, he'd be able to remember the trigger phrase himself?"

"That's the way it _should_ work, but the only way to be absolutely sure is to try it on him."

Morgan nodded, looking thoughtful. He had complete confidence in Reid's judgment; he'd learned over time to trust the workings of the man's remarkable brain. "So why does anyone need to get close to him? We could put him somewhere safe, or tie him down and pipe it in to him…or shout it from a distance." He gingerly touched his swollen nose and winced. "It'd still set him off, right?"

Reid shook his head. "No. I need to see his eyes. The way I could tell NLP was used on him in the first place was being close enough to read it in his eyes…his face… And it has to be me." He anticipated what Morgan would push for next. "I know what to look for. And I won't teach you. I'll only be sure if I'm the one who does it. I wanna be sure there's nothing else in Hotch waiting to surprise us."

"No…" Derek crossed his arms, his stance signaling his determination. "…No…there has to be another way. We're gonna discuss this with Rossi and Hotch before we go any further."

Spencer shrugged, slumping down in his seat.

But Morgan could tell by the way his teammate's lips were chewing and pursing that, no matter what anyone else decided, group decision or no, his mind was made up and his course set.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi said nothing.

He let his eyes rove over Hotch where he lay, left arm secured against his body by a tight-fitting sling. He'd obviously heard someone enter his space and was struggling to hold his emotions in check, biting back his grief with rapid gulps of air; head still turned as far away from the rest of the world as possible.

Dave came close…closer. He put out a hand, letting it rest with the lightest of touches on Hotch's good shoulder…turning the touch into a pat with a gentle, stroking motion. The slow, comforting caress worked. The convulsive sobbing impulse slowed, then stopped. The Unit Chief's breathing evened.

"I said it before and I'll say it again, Aaron. You need to talk about it. No stalling. You're out of time. Talk to me."

Hotch still refused to look at anything but the wall inches from his nose; still wouldn't turn his head back and rejoin the world in general.

"C'mon, nothing bad will come of talking. Nothing you can say will ever change how I see you. Or how much I respect you. Or how much I care for you."

Hotch's voice was scratchy…raw from crying. "Not now, Dave. I don't wanna talk right now. And words are…are dangerous. I learned that from Lewis. Better _not_ to talk."

Rossi sighed. He could sense the damage Lewis had done, but the longer he let Aaron dwell in it, the more likely it was to form scars of a very disabling sort. He needed to restore his friend's faith in himself. He leaned close to Hotch's ear.

Reid wasn't the only who'd heard the trigger phrase.

One hand still stroking Aaron's shoulder, Rossi whispered…

"It's alright, Aaron. _I'm not going away_…"


	33. Lava Worms

"…_I'm not going away…_"

Rossi took a firmer grip on Hotch's uninjured shoulder, closed his eyes, and lowered his head, resting it against his own forearm laying across his friend's chest. He waited for whatever might still lurk in Aaron's psyche, courtesy of Peter Lewis.

Hotch was fighting against something; Dave could tell that much. The body beneath his touch trembled, then tried to move out from under his hold. He pressed his upper body weight down, making escape impossible for an injured man. _Unless he was out of control and didn't feel his own pain._

Rossi smiled, lips spreading against his own forearm. _He's not going primal. He's free…_ Which is when his smile faded. Aaron might be free of Lewis's command, but he wasn't free of the experience.

_It's his memories he's struggling against. Lesser demons, in a way…corrosive rather than explosive. But destructive nonetheless._

Dave let Hotch squirm to his heart's content...or heart's ease, he hoped. When Aaron ran out of steam and began to quiet, Rossi finally raised his head. Resting his chin on the arm still weighing Hotch down, the older man gave him a weary half-smile.

"It's no use, Aaron. You're in no shape to run off on your own, and, like I said…I'm…not…going…away."

Hotch went still.

"You know that's the phrase Lewis used to control you, don't you?" It sounded more statement than question. "Don't you? Answer me, Aaron." Rossi wanted to get the Unit Chief talking, even if it was a single-word response. He had a feeling, like a single raindrop, it could presage a deluge. "Answer me…"

"Yeah." Hotch's head was still turned away, eyes averted; his voice congested in the aftermath of the tears he'd shed.

To Rossi he sounded impossibly young and scared, like a stray puppy who knew it had no control over its own fate. He spoke as soothingly as he knew how. "Do you remember how he did it?"

"Yeah." A strangled, little catch in the word warned Dave that tears might stage an encore.

"That's good. Now, very slowly, one word at a time, with as much time between them as you need…" Rossi swallowed, dreading what he might hear, but knowing he was the only one whom Hotch ever need tell. "…how did it feel? How did it feel, Aaron…Tell me…just one word to start…"

Hotch squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could. "It hurt."

Dave hated pushing; hated seeing his best friend suffer, but… "What kind of pain?..."

"Burning. Like…like red-hot threads in my brain." The Unit Chief finally turned his head, fixing Rossi with a steady, tragic gaze. "I don't want to remember, but I can't stop it."

Dave bit down on the impulse to give in; to comfort Hotch and tell him everything would be okay. "Don't try to stop it, then. Let it out. Hot threads, Aaron. Hot threads in your brain, and then…?"

"And…and I saw those things Jack likes…gummy worms…only they were made of lava and…and they burned holes down deeper and deeper, and he was laughing and said he was the only one who could make them stop hurting. So…so…he filled them up with the things he made me see. And he said he found something at the bottom of the deepest one and…and…_Daaaave_!" Hotch sobbed so hard Rossi was afraid he'd unseat his injured shoulder as he tried to curl in on himself.

The older man slipped his arms around the younger, holding him with as much care as he could to avoid stressing his injury. "Let it out, Aaron…It'll take a while, but this is a very good start…Good boy…Good boy…"

The curtain flicked open.

The ER doctor stood in the gap, a thunderous expression spreading over his features. His voice was tight and controlled. "This man needs rest. If having visitors is upsetting him, I'll have to ask you to leave…"

The outrage in his words faded when he realized the patient was clinging to his visitor as though he were the last hope, the last lifeline cast out in a vast ocean of pain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Rossi's taking a long time."

Morgan shifted in his seat. He could feel his nasal passages swelling closed. The attendant puffiness around his eyes was beginning to impact his field of vision. He wanted to get Hotch and get home. _And get an ice-pack…_

Which reminded him that Garcia was waiting for a call. He pulled out his phone and was answered on the first ring.

"Hey, Mama. Just wanted to let you know we're all good."

"Really? Really truly? Like, you're not just saying that? You don't sound right…what's wrong? Where are you?...Oh my God!...What happened?!..."

The tech analyst's alarm might have continued indefinitely, pouring forth in a breathless staccato, but Derek overrode her. "Hey! I mean what I say, Baby Girl. It's over. I'm talkin' low because Hotch is gettin' checked out. We're in a hospital, but…"

"A _hospital_!? I knew it… I just knew something would happen!...What…"

"_Garcia_!" Morgan glanced around to see if any reprimanding glares from the staff would tell him he'd exceeded an acceptable decibel level. The only reaction, though, was Reid's. The young agent's shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter; his lips pressed together to keep the mirth suitably hospital-quiet.

Morgan hunched over his phone, hoping intensity would replace volume in getting his point across. "Garcia…girl…we're fine. Things coulda gone bad, but Reid figured out Lewis's game and all that happened was Hotch and I got a little banged up. Nothin' serious."

"Wha…What do you mean 'banged up'? And why does it sound like you have a cold or something?"

Derek's sigh was a long-suffering testament to the patience it sometimes took to be Penelope's best friend. "Hotch hurt his shoulder. He'll be fine. I bumped my nose a little. Looks worse than it feels." He was lying, but a quick change of subject would let him get away with it. "Soooo…did you bake me what I asked? Cookies?"

Garcia's voice and focus did a complete 180. Pride and anticipation replacing anxiety. "More chocolate chip cookies than a battalion of grandmas in a month of church picnics, Sugar. Butterscotch chip, too."

"Wow. Thanks, Baby Girl. We'll be home soon. I'll let you know when we're close."

Morgan's smile carried over the line, doing more to calm Garcia's doubts than any words he could have said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The doctor took in the tableau of his patient cradled in the older man's careful arms. Saw Hotch holding on for all he was worth; nearly burrowing into the accommodating safety of what looked like an almost fatherly hug.

The physician reinterpreted and revised his first suspicious impression of the visitors.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Rossi's shoulders relaxed. He'd been primed to argue his way around being evicted from Hotch's presence. "No. But thank you."

The doctor watched for a few more seconds. "He doesn't need to go home today. We could keep him for observation…a kind of enforced rest, if you want."

"No, I'd like to take him home. He doesn't do well in hospitals. No offense."

"None taken." He gave a deep sigh. You couldn't solve all the ills of the world by virtue of medical treatment…much as he wished you could. "I'll have his discharge papers brought in."

The doctor exited the alcove, drawing the curtain with extra care…

…and decided to tell the other two men who were waiting their turns with Mr. Hotchner, that they could come in, too. He shook his head at his own tendency to jump to conclusions. The emotional upset, the shoulder injury, the black eyes and the nose bandage…they'd all set him off on the wrong track.

Now he thought there was a bond between these men that he couldn't quite define. But he respected all things with the capacity to calm and heal.

He had a feeling letting this little group come together would be more medicinal than anything his prescription pad could offer.


	34. Homeward

Morgan and Reid peered around the edge of the curtain surrounding Hotch's little corner of the ER.

The doctor had given them permission to go to their leader. He'd still maintained a stern expression, telling them the patient was fragile and needed quiet, calm support more than anything. And although he'd said he would set the wheels in motion for Hotch's release, reluctance rang through every word.

"I can't keep him here against his will, but…" The doctor had frowned, shaking his head with an expression of consternation. "…I get the feeling there's something bothering that man that goes a lot deeper than his injury." The piercing look he'd given the agents was proof that he thought they were keeping vital information back.

"He just doesn't like hospitals," Morgan offered. Considering what Hotch had been through, Derek didn't think it would help him to have aspersions cast on his official mental evaluation. This team liked to keep things private unless there was clear reason to believe outside help would be beneficial. They'd come this far on their own and, until he had a chance to touch bases with his boss, Morgan wasn't going to open the door to outsiders.

"Yeah, he'll be better at home." Reid tried to sound more confident than he felt. He, more than the others, knew about the slippery world of mental illness. For someone in Hotch's position, having a note attached to his medical file that hinted at emotional damage could be career-changing. _More like career derailing…_

So the agents closed ranks as the doctor went off to finalize paperwork on his patient.

Now, as Morgan and Reid took in the scene, they could understand the doctor's doubts.

Hotch huddled in Rossi's arms, looking smaller and frailer than they'd have thought possible. The wild-eyed, boundless rage that had lashed out, bloodying Derek's nose was mercifully gone, but there were definite, detectable after-effects.

Dave looked up at his teammates and gave his head the barest shake. The meaning was clear. _We're not out of the woods yet._

"Doc went to get the discharge forms." Morgan's voice was soft; the kind one used in the presence of death or tragedy; the kind that made other people follow suit.

"We need to get him out of here…someplace where I can…" Reid swallowed his anxiety. "…you know…try the trigger."

Rossi cuddled Hotch deeper into his embrace. "I already did."

"You what!? You _did_?!" Spencer was astonished, but there was a definite undercurrent of relief, too. "You could have set him off!"

"I know. In a way I did. He remembers everything. Everything." Dave sighed. Fate's capacity for dumping unwarranted tragedy on Hotch never ceased to amaze him. The man's life was a study in trauma that ancient Greek playwrights would have found irresistible. _Not fair. Not fair…not fair…not fair…_ He snuggled Aaron even closer. "I'm keeping him at my place for another day and night at least. One of you want to call Jessica and Jack and let them know?"

"Sure." Morgan pulled out his phone and stepped off to the side, shielding himself from Hotch's view. If Rossi was right and memory was fully restored, the man probably needed time to sort things out.

Derek had a feeling the sight of his swollen nose and eyes, and recollection of how he'd come by them, wouldn't go down well at the moment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan handled signing forms and gathering the schedule for follow-up treatment of Hotch's shoulder. He filled the prescription for painkillers in the onsite pharmacy, hoping to coax his boss into taking one.

Reid took care of bringing their car around. He cleared the backseat and set it up for the Unit Chief's comfort, pilfering a blanket and a couple of pillows from a hospital supply closet.

Rossi busied himself getting Hotch ready for travel. The medical staff had removed his clothing, checking for injuries other that the obvious dislocated shoulder. It was a bit of a struggle to maneuver the man back into them. Dave dispensed with the shirt on the doctor's advice.

"The less you move his shoulder, the better. Guy doesn't need a shirt if he's going straight home." It was the doctor's way of making it known that no other destination should be considered.

Hotch was quiet and subdued throughout. He let himself be handled without objection, gritting his teeth against occasional, unavoidable pain. Rossi knew it was the Unit Chief's way of making up for the violent outbursts he could now recall with terrible clarity. As much as Morgan tried to steer clear of him, Aaron couldn't help glimpsing his handiwork on Derek's bruised visage.

It was a very shamed and malleable Hotch that took his place in the backseat. Rossi slipped in opposite him. Morgan and Reid sat up front. Derek insisted on driving, confiding to Spencer that it would take his mind off his nose. The real reason was it would place him directly in front of Hotch…a position that kept his bruises out of sight, and precluded any conversation that would involve turning his head toward the occupants in the back.

"Rossi? You wanna try and get one of these into him?" Morgan handed over the small bottle of pills he'd acquired. "Might help him relax."

Dave took them without much hope. He was surprised as well as disturbed when Hotch was the picture of obedience, swallowing the medicine without so much as asking what it was for.

Conversation was minimal on the drive home. And smiles nonexistent.

Except for one.

When Morgan glanced into the rearview mirror to check on Hotch, he couldn't help grinning. Bossman had succumbed to the painkiller. Instinctively seeking out warmth in his sleep, he'd ended up in Rossi's arms once again.

Somehow, it just seemed right.

Driving through the night, Derek felt a little more hopeful for Hotch's full recovery.


	35. Down But Not Out

"Help me get him upstairs."

Rossi enlisted Morgan's muscle in hopes of sparing Hotch's shoulder additional damage on the journey to bed. But when Derek reached into the backseat, preparatory to slipping his hands around the injured man's waist, Aaron struggled up from the depths of sleep. Groggy from the painkiller, his avoidance and self-control were at a low. When Morgan helped him out, the two came face to face. Swaying a little, Hotch stared at his second-in-command's bruised, swollen features.

His voice was low with shame. "Sorry, Morgan. Really…sorry."

As apologies went, it was one of the shortest, but possibly the most sincere Derek had ever received. Hotch's head hung.

"Don't worry about it, Bossman. When I tell the story, it'll be five or six armed unsubs and me with mere seconds to save the world." He gave a lopsided grin. "If I handle it right, I'll be makin' new friends left and right…pretty ones, too."

The Unit Chief shook his head, which almost upset his balance. Morgan steadied him. With a last, guilty glance, Hotch stepped away from the car.

Which is when he realized they were back at Rossi's.

Unsteady on his feet, he gazed at the imposing façade, blinking, beginning to shake his head in small, insistent denial. "No. I wanna go home." Aaron turned eyes, whose depths were as bruised as Derek's nose, on his teammates. "I wanna go home."

Reid and Morgan deferred to Rossi when it came to the gentle kind of paternal handling their leader sometimes needed. The older man stepped closer. "No, Aaron. It would be better if you stayed here for a little while."

Hotch stared at Dave. They could tell his tired, drugged mind was trying to put the pieces together. At last he dropped his eyes and nodded. "You're right. Jack's not safe with me anymore." He darted a shamefaced glance at Derek. "No one is."

It wasn't what Rossi had meant, and certainly wasn't the conclusion anyone had expected Aaron to draw. Dave hastened to do some damage control.

"Look…you're overtired. You need some time to let things settle. The only reason I want you nearby is that we're not done talking." In truth, Rossi didn't want to risk Jack hearing his father wake screaming with visions of worms burrowing deep into his brain. He thought if Hotch could get through a sleep cycle without being plagued by bad dreams, it would be safe to let him go home.

Now he wondered if nightmares weren't the biggest problem. The man's confidence was shattered. Peter Lewis's intrusion had left a trail of damage in its wake, taking a good portion of the Unit Chief's belief in himself hostage.

Hotch was closing down; headed someplace dark and lonely where company wasn't allowed. It was in his posture, his voice, his entire demeanor.

Rossi was thinking it had been a long, eventful day. No one was going to tackle any more problems without a few hours of solid shut-eye.

"You're staying here tonight, Aaron. Tomorrow we'll talk things over. And tomorrow night you'll be back home, reading your son bedtime stories. Morgan, help me get him upstairs. Then you and Reid can head home." He favored Spencer with a grateful nod. "Kid, I don't know what we would've done without you. Things could've turned out a whole lot worse."

Reid's lips twitched in acknowledgement. But most of his focus was on Hotch. There was something so broken and defeated about him. The young genius hoped Rossi was right…that sleep and discussion would make all the difference.

But he doubted it.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis was devastated. Shocked. Stunned.

He sat in his cell running and rerunning the meeting with Aaron Hotchner in his mind like an endless reel of news footage that had happened to someone else. The kind of disaster you shake your head at and dismiss, because it isn't really relevant to _your_ life, _your_ world.

Distancing himself was the only way he could handle the dreadful reality bubbling up from the place where his own deepest fears churned and roiled.

A lifetime of mental stagnation. _Worse_ than stagnation. Exposure to inferior minds at every turn, at every moment. The creatures that would surround him were no better than lab rats. They should be his subjects, his playthings. Not his companions.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Death would have been _so_ much better.

It had already begun. There was no one even close to his intellectual level with whom he could communicate. He'd shown no interest in engaging an attorney, so a public defender had already been assigned to him. The dolt had only served to verify Lewis's low expectations, stating that the case could be drawn out for years with multiple appeals and a veritable circus of legal acrobatics thanks to the geographical diversity of the murders.

As though that were a _good_ thing.

As though his client gave a rat's ass damn about his pathetic strategies.

Lewis's jaw was sore from grinding his teeth together.

There had to be a way out. He let his despairing gaze travel over the sparse accommodations. Maybe he could liberate a piece of plumbing, or a mattress spring and use its dull edge to saw open his veins…Maybe he could volunteer to clean bathrooms or work in the laundry and guzzle down enough chemicals to poison himself.

He fisted his hands in his hair, gripping with punishing force. If that sad, little FBI agent had done as he'd been programmed, none of this would be happening. Lewis wouldn't have had to face his own cowardice. Wouldn't have to admit that he couldn't do violence to himself. He didn't have the guts.

He hated Agent Hotchner for putting him in this position where he was confronted by traits he'd managed to deny all his life.

And that _other_ agent. The one who'd slipped past him. The skinny one who seemed eminently ignorable. That was just…not…fair… The plan was supposed to be carried out between him and Hotchner. It wasn't right that someone else had skipped in and merrily laid waste to all his lovely work.

Rage stirred in Lewis, but he tamped it down as soon as he recognized it. Such things were for lesser beings like the sad-eyed Hotchner and his primal cesspit of instincts. The unsub's agile mind whirled.

If ever a situation cried for the sweet release of revenge, this was it.

Hotchner might not be a weapon anymore, but that didn't mean he couldn't be ruined. After all…the original plan had been for a murder that would destroy the agent, sending aftershocks through his career, his family…his entire life.

Peter Lewis felt the first faint breeze of salvation. Something he could put his phenomenal mind to work on. He'd learned a lot about Aaron Hotchner during their time together. Most of it had been unusable due to the time factor. He'd been rushed.

But now he had all the time in the world. A lifetime, in fact.

And there was a lot of unused ammo lying dormant in sad, little Aaron's mind.

All he had to do was find a way to ignite it.

For the first time since they'd dragged him from the conference room, Peter Lewis smiled.


	36. A Father's Fears

Rossi and Morgan left Hotch standing by his bed.

Dave had offered to help him get out of his clothes and washed up, but the Unit Chief had mumbled that he appreciated it, but he could take care of himself and he didn't want to hold the others up any more than he already had. They backed off, leaving him looking like a human cypher for uncertainty in front of his go-bag.

Downstairs, Hotch's three teammates conferred.

"He'll feel better tomorrow." Rossi always tried to find the high ground, partly out of hope, but partly because they'd been through enough for one day. He needed to tell himself something rosy so he could justify falling into bed. He couldn't run on fumes the way Reid could, and, to a lesser extent, Morgan.

"I dunno, man. He's gonna hurt a lot more tomorrow; that's for sure." Derek touched the tender bridge of his nose. "We all are. And not just his shoulder."

"I'll feed him painkillers. They'll keep him relaxed. You saw him; he took his medicine like a good boy for once."

"No, Rossi." Reid rubbed his eyes. He'd done with less sleep than anyone else. "Hotch wasn't being good. He didn't _care_. He's depressed. I know depression when I see it."

Dave's gusty sigh conveyed his reluctance to continue the discussion at this time. "Look, there's nothing more we can do tonight. I'll stay close to him. I know all his tricks and his hiding places. We'll get him through this."

"Yeah. Sure. C'mon, Pretty Boy. I know where we can get free cookies."

"Huh? Oh…yeah…Garcia." Reid shrugged. "I don't feel like it. I'm going home."

"Uh-uh. You gotta come. Gotta split her focus. At least for a little while. She sees me like this…" He gestured toward his blackened eyes. "…she'll freak. You _gotta_ come."

"Don' wanna."

"Gotta."

Spencer's lanky body signaled resignation in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his neck. "Fine." He brightened before the inevitability of the situation. "Actually, cookies for breakfast sounds kind of good."

Morgan herded his young teammate toward the door before he could change his mind. " 'Night, Rossi. Call if you need help with Bossman. I'll check on you guys tomorrow."

With a last flurry of assurances that things would look brighter in the morning, knowing it was mainly for their own comfort, the three friends parted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, Mudge, wha'd'ya say we feed the huddled masses? Or…try to, at least."

The dog had materialized at the mention of 'cookie' and was gazing up at Rossi with hopeful eyes, clearly expecting him to make good on hosting guests who trailed such a provocative word before him at such a late hour.

Dave took a page from Reid's response… "Fine. Cookies for breakfast. C'mon, boy."

In the kitchen, he filled Mudgie's bowl, adding a few biscuits as an apology for the meal being unconscionably late. Having satisfied canine requirements, Rossi put together a sandwich intended for Hotch.

He began to pour a tumbler of Scotch, belatedly recalling that alcohol and painkillers weren't a good mix. If Reid was right and Aaron was depressed on top of everything else, booze was a chancy thing.

Dave downed the drink himself, wincing at the burn. Even the finest liquor was hard on an empty stomach.

Trudging up the stairs with a sandwich plate and a glass of water, he listened for clues to Hotch's mood as he approached the guest room.

Silence.

Rossi peeked around the doorjamb…and sighed. Aaron hadn't moved. He stood, shirtless and arm-slinged, where they'd left him, eyes fixed in a sightless stare. Dave moved in.

"Hey…" The greeting was a precaution against startling the mournful figure; Rossi hadn't really expected a response, so he wasn't disappointed.

Hotch was someplace very far away.

_And someplace very lonely. Probably going down the darkest of all possible paths._ Dave's lips compressed. _The guy's life strategy is to anticipate the worst, so he explores the most hopeless, desperate terrain of every situation._

"Aaron…Aaron…?" When Rossi won a blink and a slight change in posture, he presented the sandwich, tilting the plate in what he hoped was a tempting way before the Unit Chief.

It reminded Dave of vet-day for Mudgie. He always apologized to his pet for the experience by proffering treats. But with a full complement of vaccinations rendering him woozy, the dog would gaze at the peace offerings with a groggy look of incomprehension. _Biscuit? What is this thing called 'biscuit?'_

That was how Hotch regarded the sandwich.

"It's called 'food,' Aaron. Some believe it's necessary to our continued survival." The gentle ribbing only made the baffled expression deepen and then turn from plate to Rossi.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Dave shelved the concept of nutrition, sliding the plate and glass onto the nightstand by the bed. "You haven't made much progress, so I'm gonna renew my offer to help get you settled. And this time you don't have a choice."

Hotch's eyes were having trouble focusing. He tried to accomplish his glare, but couldn't summon the laser-like energy behind it. "I'm…what…?"

"You're done. _That's_ what." Rossi shook his head, turning the younger man toward the bathroom. "C'mon, let's get you comfortable and put you down for the night. As I said, we'll talk tomorrow."

He managed to maneuver the Unit Chief in front of the sink with gentle nudges and a steady stream of encouragement. But there Hotch balked. Dave rummaged in the small shaving kit he'd extracted from Aaron's go-bag.

"It's only for a few weeks, but you need to get used to using your right hand." Rossi brandished a toothbrush with a triumphant flourish. "Here…take this."

But Hotch made no move to comply. His grave, dark eyes were searching the older man's face, a little bleary, but occupied with things of far more import than cleaning one's teeth. Dave saw the makings of yet another sleepless night lurking in the brown depths regarding him. His arm dropped; toothbrush and routines of dental hygiene abandoned for the moment.

"You need to sleep, Aaron. Alright. What's bothering you now?"

Hotch swallowed what felt like a mountain of debris composed of all his failings…all his fears…

"He…he made people _do_ things, Dave." Rossi knew who 'he' was. "H-how can I be sure I'm not still…not still…"

"Under Lewis's influence?" The older man's sigh was deeply weary. "You beat him at his own game, Aaron. Tonight, that's all you need to know." He leaned close, voice taking on a confidential tone that held all the certainty and reassurance of which he was capable. "Let it go for now. Let it go…"

"But…but he tried to make a man kill his own son!" Hotch's breathing was becoming labored. "What if?... What if?..."

Rossi saw where this was headed; saw the ultimate horror that Aaron couldn't escape. He grabbed the younger man's good arm, giving it a small, decisive shake intended to override the narcotic effect of the painkiller.

"Yes. He tried to make a man kill his own son." He shook Hotch again. One, short, sharp yank that jarred his injury enough to send a jolt of pain through his drugged sensibilities, sharpening his mind for a moment. "But he failed, Aaron! That man gave his life to save his son's."

Rossi could see the fear of a man who loved his child above all else shining from his teammate's eyes. A _primal_ fear. He held the dark eyes with his own, hoping for a connection…man to man…father to father…that would transcend all Hotch's insecurities.

"Aaron…do you really think you love Jack _less_ than that man loved _his_ son? That Lewis could rule _you_ when he failed with another man?"

Hotch blinked…too emotional to give voice to his greatest dread. Rossi bent, resting his forehead against this young father's.

"You will never hurt your son, Aaron. Never!"

But in Hotch's deepest heart, he saw his own father's abuse…and wondered if Lewis might have seen it too…_used_ it to further his own ends. _Because I'm not like other fathers. I have abuse in my genes. It can pass from generation to generation. We know that. What if Lewis…I don't know…augmented it…rewrote it…rewrote __**me**__…_

"Aaron?"

Rossi searched, but he couldn't find anything comforting in Hotch's eyes.


	37. The Dam Bursts

In the end, Rossi was glad he hadn't allowed Hotch to go home.

He'd had high hopes for the night after finally getting Aaron settled. He'd watched him swallow another painkiller. He'd arranged pillows to accommodate the injured shoulder. He'd sat at the man's bedside, talking in soft, lulling tones about pleasant memories: soccer games with Jack, team get-togethers, plans for the future…

Hotch's eyes had drifted shut. His breathing had evened and then deepened. His lips had parted as his jaw muscles relaxed, a sign his body was giving up control.

As quiet as a ninja, Dave had exited the room, leaving the door a few inches ajar.

He'd gone to his own well-earned rest, turning out the lights and burrowing into his pillow, determined to be in the best shape possible for the morrow. He would need to be sharp, have his wits about him, if he intended to get into Hotch's head and lay whatever demons still lurked there.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later, Rossi jolted awake.

He strained to identify what might have roused him, but heard only the normal night sounds of a mansion settling and a dog snoring in that whuffling way that was more a comforting white noise than a disturbance. But something wasn't right.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bent on making a tour of his home just to be sure everything was as it should be.

It wasn't.

Hotch's bed was empty.

At first, Rossi thought the Unit Chief might have made good on his original wish to go home. A quick check, however, told him that Aaron's go-bag, along with his badge, were still there. Which reminded him that he still had the man's gun. It was troubling that marksman Aaron hadn't shown any desire to reclaim it, although they _had_ been occupied with other concerns.

Padding to the top of the staircase, Rossi breathed a sigh of relief. Light from the kitchen spilled into the foyer. A small hope crested in Dave…maybe Hotch had gone to fix himself a snack…maybe it was only hunger that had disturbed the Unit Chief's sleep.

Rossi thumped his way down, making intentional noise to alert Aaron of his impending arrival.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch sat on a tall stool at the island in the center of Rossi's state-of-the-art kitchen.

With slumping posture, he cradled his hurt arm and stared toward the glass doors fronting the flagstone patio. Nighttime and indoor lighting, even though subdued, rendered the outdoors nearly invisible. What claimed his attention was the ghostly reflection that stared back at him; the likeness of a man plagued with doubts and fears.

His heart stuttered when another image appeared, closing in to take up a position at his back. With his mind traveling paths blazed by Peter Lewis, for a moment that's who Hotch thought was materializing behind him. Fear upped his adrenaline, which tipped him back to the reality outside his own thoughts.

"Dave."

Rossi cupped a palm around his friend's good shoulder, giving a gentle shake. "I was hoping I'd find you raiding the fridge." No answer. Dave's sigh was a small, resigned puff. "Guess not."

Hotch's voice was deeper and duller than normal; sleep, distress, and lingering painkillers affecting it. "Tried to be quiet. Didn't wanna wake you. Sorry."

Dave pulled up another stool, sitting where he could observe the younger man's profile as he continued to stare at his own reflection in the window. "I was hoping we'd both get some rest. Then, with clearer heads, we'd tackle some of your worries. Guess _that's_ not gonna happen either."

"Sorry."

Rossi waited several minutes in silence. At last, concluding that Hotch had no intention of speaking, he resigned himself to extracting information from him.

"Want to tell me what woke you up? Why you can't sleep?"

"I…" For a moment it seemed as though Aaron might be rallying from the depths of whatever gripped him. Rossi leaned forward, attentive. But the moment passed. Hotch subsided, shifting his weight as though his injury pained him. "I dunno."

"Yes, you do." Dave's words were soft as a lullaby, belying their subject matter. "Do I need to guilt you into talking to me, Aaron? Should I say you're a guest in my home and you owe me the truth? Or maybe we should play a game like 20 questions to see how many horrors I can name that I know live inside you already?"

Focused on his profile, Rossi could see Hotch's lower lip begin to tremble. His own thinned into a disciplined line. _I'm sorry, Aaron…but if you don't talk now, you might never…And you've just given me the tell that'll let me open you up. Forgive me._

"I know you still feel The Reaper's knife slicing through your flesh. I know you still feel Haley's body a deadweight in your arms. I know you still see every injury a teammate has suffered under your command. I know you still hear Jack sobbing in the night for a mother he'll never see again and will gradually forget. I know you still smell blood…your own, your team's, the victim's you couldn't save…"

Rossi leaned in ever closer, voice hypnotic, heart breaking. "…I know you see things that haven't happened yet…like the children of those you couldn't save seeking you out, demanding to know why, why, _why_ you failed them…" The tremble in Hotch's lip seemed to have spread, his whole body shivering with suppressed emotion.

"I know your father hit you…hurt you…I know it was more than physical. I know you still hear him in your head, telling you terrible things, making you feel worthless. And I know Peter Lewis's voice is joining up with his. One voice you could handle, Aaron. You've been doing it pretty damn well all your life. But now it's a chorus. And you can't turn it off when it's that loud, that pervasive."

Hotch's eyes squeezed shut on the tears that were forming.

Rossi hoped he was filling whatever reservoir of preserved pain existed in Aaron. He hoped he'd call up all the tributaries…throw open all the professionally sealed compartments…and make the dam Hotch worked so hard to maintain…burst.

"I know you feel responsible for the ills of the world. Because everyone turns toward you, like plants to a light. They turn toward you for answers, for help, for rescue. But where do _you_ turn, Aaron? When you absorb all those ills that others lay on your doorstep, where do _you_ go to learn how to handle them? Huh?"

Hotch was still shirtless in deference to his shoulder injury. Rossi could see every muscle, every bone and tendon constricting in silent sobs.

"You can't fight things all alone anymore, Aaron. If you don't let help in, you'll explode. And when that happens, the first ones to feel the blast will be those closest to you. Like your team…and me…and…and Jack…"

"_Daaaave_!"

It was the same needy, terrified cry Hotch had given in the hospital when he'd spoken of Lewis and the lava worms eating into his brain…an image Rossi was sure the unsub had planted, linking it to his victim's son by way of a favored candy…gummy worms.

Dave answered the cry, standing beside Aaron and wrapping him in a hug.

The dam was bursting.

Dave hated himself for making it happen. But this time no one was here to interrupt. No doctor to question the tumult in a patient. No teammates to look on with worried faces that would make their leader feel the need to control himself for their sakes.

Just a best friend who would never leave. And, if asked, would drown in the deluge, too.


	38. Another Kind of Team

Rossi's arms ached.

He'd held Hotch throughout a storm of emotional release. He hadn't kept track of time, but now that the younger man was depleted, limp with exhaustion, Dave noticed the faint, shell-pink of dawn tinting the windows.

_We made it through the night._ He let himself admit his own weariness. _I'm getting too old for this. But…_he sighed_…I'd do it again in a heartbeat._

"Aaron?" He gave his friend a gentle shake before disengaging from him. "C'mon, Aaron. I think you might be able to sleep now." Dave managed a tired smile. "We both might."

Malleable, Hotch let Rossi partially support him as he nudged him out the door, across the foyer, and toward the stairs. They were halfway up the flight when Aaron gathered enough strength and awareness to speak.

"Dave, I'm sorry. I'm so…I'm…really, really sorry."

"Shhhhh…I pushed you. My fault, but it had to be done." Rossi still felt a twinge of regret for enumerating all the worst parts of Hotch's life, weaving them together to force the outpouring he thought would cleanse his friend's spirit.

He just hoped it had worked.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis prided himself on being able to think circles around everyone, and that included his designated attorney.

With the formation of a new goal…revenge…the unsub began to alter his behavior with the aim of accomplishing the gradual demise of Agent Hotchner. Lewis started by treating his lawyer, Mr. Jerry Swanson, with respect. He listened to the man's pathetic ramblings about appeals and motions and potential retrials. When the possibility of an insanity plea was tossed out, Lewis almost snapped.

_You despicable vermin! Any mind that outstrips your own, leaves you in the dung heap where you belong…any mind beyond the reach of your simian grasp must be faulty…is that it? Moron!_

Aloud, he reined himself in and put his superior intellect to work paving the way toward higher aspirations.

"Mr. Swanson, correct me if I'm wrong, but an insanity plea, if accepted, might put a stop to what could otherwise grow into a long, arduous, epic journey through the justice system, correct?"

"Well, it would be less of a battle, Mr. Lewis. It would carry the admission of guilt, but the plea of _temporary_ insanity…well, _that_ would be a much longer struggle." The attorney's small eyes fairly gleamed with visions of himself, presently stuck in a lowly public position, holding forth with passionate diatribes before a judge and jury…and a packed courtroom with plenty of media presence, of course…slipping the bonds of his current station and using what could become a high profile, lurid case as a stepping stone to employment with a prestigious law firm, or even…a lucrative private practice.

Lewis saw the greedy light of thwarted ambition in his lawyer's eyes and knew just where to strike.

The last thing he'd wanted was a prolonged legal battle. But now, he saw it as the carrot to dangle before the hapless Mr. Swanson…and the means to an end. Lewis knew there were ways to use the penal system to obtain favors or contraband items or connections with the outside world. Imprisonment was a very delicately balanced proposition. This unsub knew how to tip the scales.

"Mr. Swanson, if you enter a plea of temporary insanity and sign on to help me…" Lewis leaned forward, expression and posture fraught with meaning. "…in _any_ and _every_ way I ask…I can guarantee you the performance of a lifetime…the _case_ of a lifetime…and a career's worth of headlines and interviews." He saw a look of hopeful suspicion pass across the attorney's features and pushed his advantage.

"Think of it, Mr. Swanson: it'll be one for the record books. Your name will find its way into the course syllabi of law schools like Yale and Harvard. It'll take time at first, but I can make this happen for you. Of that, I'm sure."

Swanson's lips parted. His tongue darted across them. Then, blinking, he shook his head, drawing back, perplexed.

_That was weird! Like what a bird must feel when it looks into the eyes of a cobra. But…the guy's whacko. And smart. If he wants to make a scene and get his name in the papers, what the hell…I'll go along for the ride. See where it leads. Couldn't hurt…_

"Alright, Mr. Lewis. We'll play it your way, if, as my client, that's what you want. But anything that jeopardizes my standing with the Bar Association is off the table. Got it? I'm not gonna risk getting disbarred for you."

The unsub's slow grin was eerily unsettling. "You'll need to trust me a little more than that, Jerry…May I call you 'Jerry?'…You'll need to play along, too. We're a team now. Team Jerry. We'll be famous…and all I need right now is one, little thing."

The lawyer raised his chin, eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

"I need you to 'lose' your phone. Walk out of here without it and no one will know. There'll be no need to suspect I have it, and…"

"No. No way, Peter…I can call you 'Peter,' right?" It was said with a touch of sarcasm that almost broke through Lewis's control "...No way I'm leaving my phone with all my contacts and info here. It'd be professional suicide. Kind of the opposite of what you're promising, don'tcha think?"

Lewis felt the rage rising with each beat of his heart. He punched it down. Some goals were worth turning the other cheek. Some goals were worth waiting for.

"Okay. How about this? The next time you come to see me…as soon as possible; later this afternoon?...you 'lose' a disposable phone that you bought with cash. Untraceable to you. I could have got it from a guard…or another inmate with connections…How about that?"

Swanson's eyes were still narrowed. "What's to stop you from telling someone I gave it to you? That could cause me all kinds of trouble…Peter."

Lewis did a wonderful approximation of an affable, slightly puzzled comrade. "Now why would I do that? You're my lifeline…my only hope. I'd be a fool to do anything that would compromise your ability to move freely and drop by at will. And I think we can both agree, Jerry, that I may be a murderer…I may be insane _temporarily_…but the one thing I'm not, nor ever have been…is a fool."

Lewis's grin was genuine.

So was his attorney's.

"I think we have a deal. I'll be back to begin building our strategy tomorrow." Swanson shuffled some papers back into his briefcase, latched the lid and stood, noting his client's slightly crestfallen look. Lewis had wanted him to rush out, buy a phone and come hotfooting it back that very afternoon.

The lawyer was proud he'd had the presence of mind to stave off their next meeting until tomorrow. It was good to let these inmates know who was in charge from the start.

But as he walked out the jailhouse doors into the sunshine, Jerry Swanson's head was spinning with all the delightful fantasies Lewis had conjured.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi put a very drained Hotch to bed, as sure as he could be that this time the Unit Chief would sleep for a few hours at least.

Before he went to his own rest, his phone rang. Dragging with every move, Dave pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID.

"Hey, Morgan."

"Man, you sound like hell."

"Been a rough night. I'm just about to head to bed."

A beat of silence told Dave that Morgan was assembling the pieces, drawing what inferences he could. "Anything I can do to help? Come over and babysit while you get some shuteye?"

Rossi managed a small chuckle. "Nah. Bad as it was, I think the worst is behind us. I think he's gonna be okay…or is on his way, at least."

"Good. That's good." Derek's relief carried over the line. "So you sending him home later?"

"I think so. I'll see how he is after we've both had some rest, but…yeah, I think so. I know he's missing Jack."

"Good job, Rossi. Bossman's on the mend. Get some sleep. Call me if you need me."

"Thanks."

Dave hung up. Talking about getting back to normal reminded him of some things he didn't want to overlook in the hustle and bustle of getting Hotch home.

His last deeds before going to bed were to tuck Aaron's gun deep into his go-bag, and to return the man's phone. It seemed as though years had passed rather than days since they'd taken it away in order to protect him from Peter Lewis's twisted game.

_But there's nothing that bat-crap crazy bastard can do now… It's over, thank God._


	39. Marks on the Slate

Hotch slept the sleep of the dead… of the damned…of the just…of the utterly depleted.

Worn out mentally and physically, his body didn't even change position during his slumber. He woke exactly as he'd drifted off, blankets tucked around him by Rossi's thoughtful hands. He also woke with the odd sensation that his skull had been hollowed out and scrubbed clean. He hadn't decided how he felt about that before a tsunami of guilt and shame crashed down on him to fill the void.

_I've been nothing but trouble these last few days. Put my team through hell. Showed them just how weak I am…how weak my mind is. Let an unsub take me over and turn me inside out._

The vision of Morgan's bruised and bloated nose swam before Hotch's mind's eye. He edged to the side of the mattress and sat up. Favoring his injured shoulder, he leaned over and squeezed his eyes shut against the image. _I attacked my own man. If I can do that, what else am I capable of?_

Before he could explore that dicey terrain, the bedroom door, ajar to start with, eased open a few inches more. Rossi's discerning eye peered through the gap, taking stock of his friend's status.

Hotch made glancing eye contact. "Hey."

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Or, more like good afternoon." Dave ventured closer, profiling talents on full alert. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine…uh…I'll be out of here pretty soon…I'm sorry for…" Aaron made an awkward business of rising to his feet; balance uncertain thanks to his immobilized arm. Rossi came to his aid via a supportive hand under his good elbow.

"You're not going anywhere. We still have things to discuss. And stop apologizing. You didn't do anything wrong."

Hotch's head snapped up, his eyes at last fastening on the older man's. "I did _everything_ wrong, Dave. And I'm not sure I can set things right. Not all of them anyway. And…and I'm not sure things aren't _still_ wrong with…you know…me." Aaron looked away, fear and shame mingled in his expression.

Rossi took a moment to sigh and rub a hand over his beard.

This was not unexpected. Only unwelcome. "Look, Aaron…I don't have all the answers, but I'm a pretty darn good judge of you and the machinery inside that makes you run. We went through some stuff last night that was hard. In fact, the last few _days_ have thrown trials at you that no man should have to endure."

His arm dropped to his side as he shrugged. "I'm proud of you. As far as I, or Reid or Morgan, are concerned, you came through with integrity and bravery and honor. Now, unless you wanna sit here and keep fishing for compliments about what a great guy you are while breakfast gets cold, I suggest we continue this downstairs." Rossi's smile was kind, but firm. "You're going to eat and then we'll decide together where we go from here. _Capiche_?"

Much as he wanted to slink away on his own to explore whatever wounds he might be carrying, Hotch realized the futility of resisting. He nodded in a dejected way.

"Okay. Just let me get cleaned up first."

"Need help?"

"No…no, I got it."

Rossi watched his friend pick up his go-bag in his good hand and move toward the bathroom with slow steps. He didn't think he'd ever seen someone look so expressively mournful from the back.

"I'll be downstairs when you're ready." Dave took Hotch's noncommittal grunt as acknowledgment.

He headed for the stairs, leaving Aaron to his privacy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid didn't sleep much, considering he'd forgone rest the previous night.

It had been a mistake to indulge in Garcia's chocolate and butterscotch chip cookies right before bed. The sugar rush and lingering anxiety about Hotch had combined to keep the young genius's brain running at full throttle. Even in sleep.

As a result, he didn't feel refreshed.

He felt concerned. Unfinished. As though he'd forgotten something important.

He fixed himself some lethal-strength coffee and pulled a faded, old wingchair upholstered in forest green to the window. This was his thinking place when he was troubled. He sat in the narrow aperture, watching the street below. In effect, Spencer was engaged in activities that echoed each other. Just as his eyes scanned the pedestrians and traffic without fixing on any one thing in particular, so his mind was roving over the last few days without focus.

In both cases he was waiting for something to emerge from the underbrush, from the general rumble of activity and claim his attention.

Two cups of coffee and three more of Garcia's cookies later, Reid was no closer to an answer. He gave himself a frustrated, little shake, and pulled out his phone.

_I need more to go on. It's like a case where we hate it, but we know we need another victim so we have enough information to stitch together a profile._

He wanted to know how Hotch was doing. He intended to call Rossi, but Reid punched the speed dial for the Unit Chief's cell automatically…without thinking.

Or maybe his brain _had_ seen something emerge after all. It just hadn't shared its knowledge with its conscious host yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Miles away, Hotch's phone rang

and rang

and rang

and rang.

Aaron stood in the bathroom door, staring at the device on the nightstand, clamoring for his attention. He couldn't force himself to answer it. Couldn't even move close enough to see who was calling. All he could do was stand still, eyes wide, perspiration beading on his upper lip.

It was the second shock in as many minutes.

Groping in his go-bag for fresh clothing, his fingers had connected with something. Something familiar. Something he should have known and greeted like an old friend.

Instead, his good arm had recoiled as though bitten, as though fangs of some venomous snake had reached up to poison him from where it coiled among his clean underwear. One level of his mind knew it…recognized it as his gun. But on another strata, all his alarms went off. He didn't even realize it until he jerked backwards with enough force to wrench his injured shoulder.

Still in a miasma of pain, he'd heard his phone go off.

Didn't matter who was calling.

Whoever it was would be a disembodied voice.

And Hotch was just beginning to realize that he hated disembodied voices. He was also beginning to realize that you couldn't wipe the slate clean of the marks an unsub like Lewis had scrawled across your soul.


	40. Phone Fun

Rossi frowned.

Even handicapped by a bum shoulder, he didn't think it should take Hotch this long to freshen up and come down. He tried to distract himself by puttering around the coffee maker, but couldn't stop the vision popping into his mind of how he'd found Aaron crouched in the shower crying.

It seemed so long ago. But it wasn't. _And despite the emotional release of last night, he's still hurting. Just not teetering on the brink of a breakdown anymore. I think. I hope._ Rossi looked toward the kitchen door and gave a heavy sigh. _I don't know. I just don't know. If I hover over him, it'll just undermine his confidence in himself. He'll think I'm waiting for him to break again. But if he needs help…and he's not the type to ask for it…_

Dave abandoned cooling toast and congealing eggs in favor of going to check on his best friend one more time.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he crossed the foyer and heard the faint sound of Hotch's phone drifting down from the second floor. The insistent ringtone continued throughout Dave's two-step-at-a-time ascension.

He'd thought it prudent to set the cell so it wouldn't go to voicemail. They hadn't known what the trigger phrase Lewis used might be. He hadn't wanted Hotch to check his mail and inadvertently hear it.

_So why isn't he answering it?_ Aaron was one of those people who could pick up so fast the caller sometimes had the impression there'd been no ringtone at all. He was diligent about putting himself at others' disposal. Even if he was in the shower, he'd leap to answer a call.

The continuous ringing was just wrong.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch stared at the phone and shivered.

As though from a distance, he watched himself cower against the wall. One part of his mind questioned his actions…or lack thereof. _I had no trouble calling Jack the other day. No trouble talking to him. I think I could do it again…right now. So…what's wrong with me?_

As if in answer, he could almost recall the silken poison of Peter Lewis's voice whispering, nagging, threatening. It was gone, but…_Something's lingering. And that has to be of __**my**__ making. Not his. _Hotch raised his good hand to his hair and knotted some of the dark strands around his fingers, tugging his distress. _Oh, no. No, please…_

The Unit Chief was fairly certain he was in the throes of developing a phobia. _How am I supposed to do my job, if there's a panic attack waiting on the end of every incoming call?_

In slow despair, Hotch sank to the ground, back against the wall.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi stood in the bedroom doorway, feeling a keen sense of _déjà vu_.

It was the dreaded position first coined in his shower.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall both literally and figuratively, Hotch cradled his injured arm, scrunching himself into as small a space as possible, and stared at the bleating phone. The expressions that washed across his features in rapid succession and mixture were too many and too transitory for Dave to analyze in full.

It didn't really matter.

Aaron's fear was so intense, Rossi could almost taste it like coppery silt in the back of his own throat. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be the epicenter, rather than an observer, rather than a ripple on the outer fringes.

He crossed to the younger man just as the phone finally, mercifully…stopped.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frowning, Reid cut the connection and stared at his phone, body quiescent in his chair while his mind whirled and splintered and followed a thousand different paths at once.

They'd taken Hotch's phone away from him. It was possible that Rossi hadn't yet returned it. But then the older man would have answered. The phone of a Unit Chief wasn't something you ignored. Nine times out of ten, the incoming call would be Bureau-related. The small corner of Reid's brain devoted to his own insecurities jumped up and down, waving for attention. _Maybe they saw it was __**you**__ calling. Maybe they didn't want to talk to __**you**__._

"Oh, shut up," the young genius grumbled to himself. _You've been down that road of self-doubt before. Right now, if anyone has a right to engage in self-doubt, it's Hotch._

Reid shushed the other tangents of speculation involving signal or device malfunctions. He couldn't be sure of anything, but a gnawing sensation was working its way to the fore.

_Self-doubt. A man who takes the burden and the blame as a matter of course would be knocked off his game by the whole Peter Lewis thing. He'd find it difficult to see himself as the victim. Might even find ways to believe he was a contributing factor in the deaths of others. If any of that showed up, Rossi'd jump on it with both feet, but…_ His lips began chewing and twisting. _…but Hotch hides things._

Minutes later, Spencer was dressed and headed out the door. He thought of calling Rossi, but discarded the impulse. He wanted to see Hotch. Needed to.

He had a bad feeling that he was repeating his previous surprise visit to Rossi's home, but it didn't stop him.

All it did was make him remember to leave his blood-red scarf behind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Counter fear with calm_, Rossi counseled himself as he moved closer to where Hotch cowered in a small, miserable bundle.

He squatted down beside the shivering Unit Chief and spoke with purposeful composure. "Hey, Aaron. What's going on? I thought you were coming down."

Shaking his head, Hotch swallowed, breathing harsh. "Something's wrong with me." His eyes burned with terrified confusion. "The phone…I couldn't…couldn't…Dave, something's wrong!"

"I see." Rossi worked to keep his voice even. "It's stopped ringing now. Does that make you feel better?"

Aaron's glance darted from side to side, taking a reading on his inner turmoil. "No. Because there's something _wrong_!"

"Alright…" Dave eased around so his back was against the same wall as Aaron's. Sitting side by side on the floor, Rossi tried to infuse the younger man with his own steady, reliable presence. "How's the shoulder?"

Hotch blinked, struggling to follow the change in subject. "H-huh?"

"Your shoulder. How does it feel today?"

"Hurts."

Dave nodded with a satisfied air. "Good."

"That's good?"

Rossi smiled inwardly. Hotch had finally focused on something other than the phone on the nightstand. Puzzlement had replaced some of the fear in his eyes, although Dave could feel the faint tremble in the younger man's body as they occasionally touched, sitting in such close proximity. "Pain's to be expected. If you weren't hurting at all, I'd think something was wrong. Nerve damage or something."

Dave turned slightly, the better to face Hotch. "The thing is, it takes time to heal. It's going to hurt for a while. But it _will_ get better as long as you don't rush it…don't try to use it too much or too soon." His voice slowed, giving the next words added import. "The same goes for your mental state, Aaron. I know it's scarier than a physical injury, because it's new. You don't have anything to compare it to, so you don't trust in the healing process.

"Your shoulder will heal if you rest it…let your body clear out the damage and knit up the injury. Your mind will heal if you take measures to clear it and give it room to mend." He let a small smile trace his lips. "And you know what I'm going to say will help clear your mind, don't you?"

Hotch's eyes closed. He leaned his head against the wall at his back. "Talking. You always want me to talk more."

"It helps you find your way back…find your way out of _there_." Rossi pushed a gentle finger against the Unit Chief's forehead. "Now, we'll figure this phone thing out in time. For now, come downstairs and eat something. When you calm down a little more, we'll be better able to find out why the phone set you off."

Aaron's eyes stayed closed. "I know why. I know."

"Yeah?" Rossi waited, feeling his own pulse speed up; trying to hide his own concern from this poor, tormented soul.

"I don't like voices coming for me…following me…finding me…"

"Why's that?"

Hotch's Adam's apple bobbed as his throat worked to get the words out. "Because it might be…_him_…" His breathing roughened again. "Dave, he _controlled_ me. I didn't have a choice in what I did or what I saw. He _owned_ me!" Aaron opened his eyes, fixing the older man with a look that made Rossi's own breath catch. "I couldn't stop it from happening. I couldn't stop _him_!"

"Listen to me, Hotch. Lewis is in jail. If he tries to call you, you'll be able to tell. The caller ID will be from Maryland. We'll get you over this, but for now…just to get to the other side of not being able to answer your own phone… don't answer anything with an area code from Maryland. Okay? Can you do that?"

Hotch stared at his friend, desperate to draw comfort from him. After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that. Okay…okay…"

"And for now, I'll keep your phone with me. I'll screen everything incoming."

Hotch kept nodding, more to reassure himself than to agree. But it was a step in the right direction. A step toward regaining the control he felt he'd lost.

Rossi pushed himself up to a standing position. Leaning over, he helped the Unit Chief to his feet with some last soothing words.

"It'll be alright, Aaron. Lewis isn't getting out any time soon. He can't get to you."

As the two men crossed the room, headed toward the stairs and breakfast, Rossi picked up Hotch's phone. He set it on vibrate and slipped it deep into his pocket.

Aaron watched the action with wary eyes.

He still hadn't told anyone about the horror of touching a gun; another new wrinkle in his psyche thanks to Peter Lewis.

He followed Rossi out the door. _Phone first. Gun later. One step at a time. _ He repeated Dave's reassurance to himself. _Lewis can't get to me. Lewis can't get to me…Lewis can't get to me…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In a different state, but not so _very_ far away, Jerry Swanson was taking no chances.

He'd purchased a disposable phone for his client. Before giving it to him, Swanson went online and registered it with a bogus address in the DC area. Neither the cash purchase, nor the number would be traceable.

_Hell, it won't even look like it's in the same state as me! _He chuckled.

Satisfied with his security measures, the attorney slipped the phone into his briefcase.

It would get his next meeting with Peter Lewis started on the right foot…a foot that would be the first step toward launching his lackluster public defender's career into the stratosphere.


	41. Conditioning

This time, when Reid approached Rossi's mansion, he did so in broad daylight and didn't chance peering in a window to see if he was interrupting anything.

Nonetheless, Spencer fidgeted on the doorstep. He was never sure of his welcome at the best of times. Now, filled with gnawing concerns that made his lips twist and churn…a clear sign of his worry…he felt like a harbinger of ill tidings, hunched on the welcome mat; a minion of Edgar Allen Poe's morbid raven. He pressed the door bell and listened to the rich chimes announce a visitor.

When Rossi opened the door, he looked grim enough to make Reid feel his own disquiet was justified.

They dispensed with the niceties of small talk.

"How is he?" Spencer stepped over the threshold as Dave moved back, allowing entrance.

"I'm not sure. But…something's going on with him that's got me worried."

"I tried calling him. He didn't answer."

"That was _you_?" Rossi gave his young visitor a reprimanding glare, although he was well aware that Reid hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, it was probably a good thing to discover any latent damage roaming Hotch's mind. But it was an unwelcome revelation. _And I'm blaming the messenger._

Dave shook his head. Reid's expression was that of a puppy who'd peed on the carpet and suddenly learned this necessary bodily function was frowned upon under certain circumstances.

"Wha…what did I do?"

"Sorry, kid. It set him off. I'm still not sure what's wrong."

Curiosity and a feeling of undeserved guilt warred in the young genius. Curiosity won. "You mean like another trigger? Lewis didn't have that much time! I don't think he could've…"

"No…" Rossi interrupted. "Hotch said he didn't want to answer the phone because he was afraid it would be Lewis's voice again. Before, it was running through his mind all the time. Now he's scared it'll jump out at him; make a return." Dave's sigh was dejected. "We haven't gotten any deeper into it, but my guess is Hotch doubts himself now. If someone could take him over once, he's afraid it could happen again."

"Oh…no…no, no…The chances of that happening again are astronomical. He must know that."

"Knows it, but doesn't _feel_ it. Know what I mean?"

"Sure…sure…" Reid lifted his nose as though it were possible to scent terror in the vagrant air currents wafting through the foyer. "Can I see him?"

"Of course." Before Rossi could lead the way, Spencer moved with purpose toward the kitchen where Hotch was toying with his breakfast.

Maybe it _was_ possible to smell fear.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch barely glanced up when Reid entered.

"Hey." He concentrated on moving scrambled eggs around his plate. _I knew it'd be one of the team. They're worried about me. Worried that I'm broken and can't do the job anymore. And maybe they're right._

The young genius perched on the edge of the stool beside Aaron's. His tentative attitude only served to reinforce the Unit Chief's conviction that he was causing his team distress. Hotch waited for some comforting platitude that would be well-meaning, but ultimately only lip-service. But Reid didn't say anything. He sat a foot away, studying his boss until Hotch became irritated, turning and fixing the younger agent with a scowl.

"What?"

Spencer flinched, he'd been deep in concentration and was taken unawares. "Nothing. I'm just figuring stuff out." It was true. Everyone in the BAU knew the resident genius did nothing in idleness. He couldn't stop the extraordinary mechanism that was his brain.

Hotch knew it. But he was starting to feel frustrated by what he saw as his own weakness. And frustration usually made him lash out in anger. "Well, stop it. There's no riddle here." In a torrent of self-hate, Aaron enumerated his failings.

"I'm a coward. We already established that, remember? And now I'm scared of answering the phone on top of everything else that's wrong with me." He returned to poking at his food. "Probably be scared of my own shadow next." The last was grumbled in a low tone meant for the Unit Chief's ear only.

"Hotch, you aren't giving yourself credit. You never do." Reid's amber gaze was mournful. "You're tired and you're hurting. If I'd been through what you have, I'd probably be checked into a clinic with a heavy schedule of therapy for the next six months. I'd…"

"You'd be able to get _past_ it, Reid!" The Unit Chief's grumble now bordered on a snarl. "You'd be able to figure out where the damage was and you'd explain it to yourself, and believe yourself, because you're smarter than I am. You have a _choice_ about being ruled by your feelings. You see them more clearly."

Hotch lapsed back into morose silence, lips pressed thin, torturing the eggs on his plate with short, sharp jabs.

When Spencer spoke, it was soft and hurt…and it made Aaron a little ashamed of snapping at this special, gentle creature whose contributions to his team exceeded expectations…whose only desire in return was to be made to feel as though he belonged. "I don't think I'm smarter than you are, Hotch. I just know different stuff than you do. And I wouldn't change the way you feel things 'cause that's what makes you the only Unit Chief at the Bureau any of us want to work for."

Rossi stood off to the side, watching. He saw Aaron's head droop, his posture slump in regret for any words that might have hurt the most defenseless member of his team. Reid continued in his mild way.

"I think what happened, what you're going through now, is partly because you _are_ smart _and_ because you feel deeply. You learn things incredibly well on an instinctive level as well as an intellectual one. Lewis conditioned you. It wouldn't have taken so well if you were _less_ intelligent. He probably didn't even have this as a primary goal. All he wanted was to instill that trigger in you." Reid paused, swallowing his discomfort. "And it's because you feel things the way you do…the deep way that makes you a strong leader…that what Lewis did is sticking with you."

"You're saying nice things about me." Hotch sounded subdued, a little more tolerant. "But I can't see my way out anymore, Reid. I can't." He finally gave both Dave and Spencer an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to get better from this."

"Umm…Reid shifted his weight, feeling awkward and worried that he might be taking chances with his boss's mental health. "..Hotch, I think _I_ might know. If…if you want to try, that is."

A glint of interest showed in the Unit Chief's eye; the first sign of something hopeful that might transcend depression.

Standing to the side, Rossi just looked grateful for the way this genius kid could make a sad, injured man see the faintest candle-glow at the end of his tunnel.

But when Reid pulled out his phone, the look on Hotch's face signaled dread.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jerry Swanson slid into a seat opposite his client.

He hadn't even settled himself before Lewis, eyes fixed on the briefcase the attorney had set on the table between them, questioned him.

"Did you bring it? The phone? Did you?"

"Shhhhh…" Swanson glanced over his shoulder toward where a man stood guard in the hallway, back turned in consideration of the confidentiality of the attorney-client relationship. "Keep your voice down. Our whole deal's off if you do _any_thing…anything at all…to tie me into this."

The unsub gritted his teeth, jaw muscles working. _Dolt! You should be honored to be 'tied' to me in any way whatsoever. Clown!_ Lewis reminded himself that, if he didn't handle this slimeball lawyer with care, he'd be spending the rest of his days surrounded by others who were the mental equivalents of insects. _I will anyway, but at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing I derailed that sad, little FBI agent._

He held his tongue until Swanson was done shifting and fidgeting and otherwise wasting time in a demonstration of superiority by virtue of his being a free man…a man who _could_ take his time.

At last, checking that the guard was still far enough away to preclude hearing them, and making sure the security camera in the corner wasn't able to see his hands from its angled position, Jerry reached into his briefcase and palmed the phone. He slid it across the table to his client under cover of a sheaf of papers requiring signatures.

Swanson saw Lewis's eyes light up and felt the need to caution him further. Clamping his hand down on top of the unsub's, he hissed his conditions for this act of smuggling.

"Listen to me, Peter. If you so much as breathe a sigh in your sleep that connects me to this, I'll mishandle your case and have you in maximum security with thugs who'll use you as their weekend hobby…got it?"

Once again, Lewis swallowed his contempt…and just a tiny lump of fear for an aspect of imprisonment he hadn't considered yet. "Don't worry. No one's gonna catch me." _They're too stupid._

"And one more thing."

The unsub sighed, impatient with this game of master and imprisoned, lesser being. "What?"

"You have to wait at least 24 hours before you use it. It would look too suspicious if you got caught with a cell right after conferring with me. Got it?"

"No one's gonna catch me. But…fine. I'll wait until tomorrow to use it."

With an avid, hungry expression, Peter Lewis pocketed his new phone…so eager to use it, he didn't pay attention to anything else his attorney was chattering about.

He was too busy visualizing the information his eidetic memory had cataloged on Agent Aaron Hotchner.

Phone number.

Address.

And no family to speak of other than a son who was undoubtedly the apple of his eye.

Lewis didn't really care what happened to the boy, but it was nice to know he'd be ruining two lives rather than one.


	42. Blast From the Past

Hotch's fear was as palpable as it was pathetic.

His eyes tracked the phone in Reid's hand as though it were an entity in and of itself. As though it were capable of independent action and might strike with killing force and no warning. As a result, Spencer handled the cell with ginger care; making no sudden moves; keeping a secure hold on it.

"Where's your phone, Hotch?" The young genius rose from his seat, backing away a few paces.

The Unit Chief looked lost, turning toward Rossi who was leaning against a counter, arms crossed. The older man did a slight startle, pulling out of his own thoughts as he watched the drama between the other two unfold. He reached into his pocket.

"Here. I've got it." Dave looked from Aaron's shrinking posture to Reid. _You're __**sure**__ you want to do…whatever?_

Spencer was certain the others knew what he was up to; their respective backgrounds in psychology meant they were familiar with such basic theories. But taking time to explain in soothing tones might help Hotch relax. He was visibly overwrought at the moment, especially for a man who kept his physical 'tells' under strict control.

"All I'm gonna do is call you, Hotch. I'll be standing right here. You'll see my ID as the incoming. You can take your time and answer when you're ready. It's desensitization. That's all. No big deal." He could tell by the man's expression that it was a very big deal indeed to Hotch.

"Okay. Okay. I can do that. I'm okay…I'm okay…" Aaron was trying to convince himself more than his colleagues.

Rossi and Reid's eyes connected in mutual acknowledgment of their leader's distress. Hotch saw the exchanged look and lowered his own eyes in shame. His voice was low, too. "Look, I know there's nothing to worry about. I _know_ that. But I…I feel like my heart's going to stop anyway."

"That's okay." Reid went to the kitchen table, taking a chair facing where Aaron sat on a stool at the central island. "If we do this enough times, and you see that nothing bad happens, it'll bring your emotions and your intellect more into sync."

Hotch nodded. "Right. I know that, too." His dark eyes fixed on the cell in Dave's hand as the older man stepped closer, extending his arm, proffering the device. Aaron swallowed, shook his head as though trying to dislodge some stubborn mental image, and reached a slow hand out to accept his phone.

Rossi was studying every hesitant move, every physical manifestation of mental turmoil. He frowned as their hands met and Hotch's fingers trembled. Then Dave's brow cleared, tragic revelation suffusing his expression.

"Aaron, you _do_ know what the main problem with the phone is, don't you?" Something in the older man's tone made Reid perk up and look alert.

"Yeah. Lewis got inside my head and left his footprints all over me. That's what."

"No…Ah, Aaron…it's not just that." Now Rossi had both teammates' attention. His features drooped; a profound sadness coming over his expression. "Think, Hotch. When was the other time something happened over the phone? Something you could never really get over. Think…"

The Unit Chief's complexion drained of color. His eyes went distant, unfocused. His whisper would have been inaudible if the room hadn't been a quiet as the grave.

"Haley…" Hotch's eyes brimmed. He struggled to contain them. "Over the phone…Haley…"

Rossi nodded.

Reid closed his eyes in sympathy. _Of course, how could any of us forget? I bet he's been carrying that around for years. And Lewis exhumed it and breathed life into it again. God…poor Hotch…_

Aaron stared at the phone in his hand.

It wasn't the same one he'd had that day, but he could still hear it…could still hear his ex-wife's last words…

…and the gunshots that had ended her life and changed his and his son's forever.

Phones always brought him bad, bad news.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was like watching him mourn all over again; like watching a cloud descend with the power to smudge out the light behind Hotch's eyes. It was a relief when he closed them and surrendered to the quiet horror that he kept buried with debatable success.

Reid and Rossi gave their friend his space, keeping silent and taking their cues from him.

For several minutes he remained still, hunched over his private pain, head bowed. After a while, when he straightened, his eyes stayed downcast.

"I didn't think of that."

Dave sighed. "That's because you put a lot of effort into _not_ thinking about it."

"I bet that's what fed the division between emotion and intellect…between heart and mind." Reid's words were clinical, but their delivery was filled with compassion; a quality that touched Hotch's damaged heart. He looked up.

"I still don't want to answer the phone."

"Understandable."

"But I have to."

Both agents nodded.

"I should say so." Rossi closed Aaron's fingers around his cell, pushing the younger man's closed fist up against his chest. "It won't be any of the ghosts or monsters from your past. It'll just be Reid."

Hotch nodded. "Okay…okay…okay…" He licked dry lips and stared at the little rectangle of plastic; meant to be a door to communication with the world, but for one troubled man, more like a door to Hell.

Spencer looked at Rossi. The older man nodded. Reid pressed his speed dial…number one for his boss…

Hotch's teammates saw him start and shudder. Saw him force his fingers to obey. Using his right hand was clumsy, but he managed. It forced him to concentrate on his movements, which was good under the circumstances. It made the action of answering less automatic…more controlled.

Aaron took a shallow breath and held it. "Hotchner."

"It's me, Hotch. Reid. Just Reid. How're you doing?"

Despite the caller being mere feet away, the Unit Chief trained his eyes on his phone. Spoke to his phone. "I'll be okay. I will."

Rossi glanced at Spencer, brows raised. The young genius responded with a shrug. His voice, however, was confident, reflecting no doubt at all. "I know you will, Hotch. We're gonna work at this for a while and I bet in a few hours you'll feel much better about taking calls."

Aaron wasn't sure about that, but he _was_ sure of something else. "Reid, thank you. I hope you know how glad I am that you're on our side…on _my_ team."

The BAU's youngest agent's lips trembled and then spread in a smile. For such a remarkable man, his goals were humble. At the top of his list was belonging somewhere.

Hotch had just given him a lovely gift by reminding him his home was with his team.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis was tempted to forego his attorney's stipulation that he wait 24 hours before using his secret phone.

But he decided to toe the line. The man might be a moron licking others' shoes at the bottom of the legal heap, but, as long as he did the unsub's bidding, he was useful.

Lewis laid on his bunk and let his fingers rest on the small device in his pocket. There were a few cracks in the drywall of his cell. He'd pried at one with his little finger until it was deep enough to accommodate the phone.

But for now he laid on his back, touching the concealed device, and planning.

His first call would be to information, asking for a grocery store that would deliver to Agent Hotchner's address.

His second would be to the sad, little FBI agent himself, once delivery had been made.

Lewis's sigh was deep and contented.

Who knew life in jail could hold so much gleeful anticipation?


	43. Like Christmas Morning

For the rest of the afternoon Reid worked with Hotch, desensitizing him to the unknown horrors that could reach out from the other end of a phone call.

Over and over the young agent called his boss, each time moving a little further away; then turning his back; then leaving the room; then adjourning to Rossi's front porch. Each time Reid would say a few sentences, coax a little more conversation out of the reticent Unit Chief. After a while, the words came more easily. Hotch began to pay attention to what was being said; began to hold up his end of the discussion. Groping for things to say, Spencer shared more of himself than usual. It wasn't that he kept things back from his teammates; it was more that no one ever asked him for more than they thought he was comfortable sharing. It was more a matter of respecting his privacy than ignoring him.

But as the calls went on, Hotch's natural tendency to care about others asserted itself. Reid knew it would. He'd been counting on it. The one thing that could always make the Unit Chief push himself beyond his comfort zone, was the opportunity to help someone else.

For his part, Aaron recognized the bravery it took for the young genius to open up, as well as the privilege of being allowed into his inner sanctum. Reid started it with a casual request.

"I think I might ask for a couple days off, Hotch. Maybe next month?"

"Sure. Anything special?"

"Yeah. Lemme call you back and tell you about it."

Reid would hang up, wait a minute or two and then call Hotch again. Aaron would feel his heart bump and his breath catch, but the reactions lessened with every few calls. He'd check the incoming ID with diligence born of dread. His physical signs of distress would ease. He'd answer the call.

"Hi. So what's going on next month?"

A slight hesitation, then… "My mom's birthday. I…I thought I'd go out and spend it with her."

Silence as Hotch's troubles receded, his empathic nature realizing this was a delicate subject for his youngest teammate to broach. _He must need to talk to someone. I should know that. I should be there for all my agents. Not mired down in my own mess._ "You're a good son, Reid. She's lucky to have you."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Why not?"

"Lemme call you back."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

And so it went.

Aaron listened to small, conversational bytes that painted the picture he already knew of a bullied, exceptional youngster forced to take on responsibilities beyond what any child should. Caring for a mentally ill parent alone...committing that parent and bearing the resulting emotional scars forever. Reid would always feel wrong about having done the right thing.

At first, Rossi stood behind Hotch, hands on his shoulders, keeping his touch on the one that had been dislocated very, very light. Just enough to let the Unit Chief know he wasn't alone. When Aaron's muscles grew taut with stress, Dave would massage a message of comfort, feeling the body beneath his hands let go of its tension in gradual increments.

After a while, the older man moved away, observing, but letting Hotch deal with his internal turmoil on his own. It was a demonstration of confidence in Aaron's ability to do so.

By evening, Hotch had a greater appreciation for the personal pressures that had formed and continued to influence his youngest teammate. He'd known about them, but listening to Reid talk made the man's troubled childhood more accessible. It let Aaron see past their differences to the more unifying concept of their both having traveled rough roads to adulthood.

By the time Spencer had revealed more than he'd originally intended about himself, Hotch was answering his phone without hesitation, anxious to continue the discussion that he hoped was helping the young genius. Pleasantly weary, Reid moved on to what he considered step #2 in his boss's rehabilitation.

The next time Hotch's phone rang, he glanced at the caller ID. His pause before answering was minimal.

"Hey, buddy…how's it going?"

"Hi, Dad! Dr. Reid called. Said you wanted to talk to me. When you comin' home?"

"Soon. Real soon." Hotch glanced to where Reid was entering through the kitchen door. "I'm thinking tonight."

"Cool! Can we do pizza?"

"Pizza sounds good…."

Reid and Rossi watched Hotch relax into a normal conversation with his favorite person in the whole, wide world.

After a few minutes, they left father and son to talk in private. Dave gave his teammate an affectionate shove toward his den where a rare, prize-winning bottle of Scotch earmarked for special occasions, waited.

"Good job, kid. I think you got him over the hump."

Reid smiled, accepting praise, but unable to do so without injecting a qualifying bit of modesty. "Hope so. But it's just a start. He's calmer now, but it'll be different when he's back at work."

Rossi shook his head, giving his colleague a sly grin. "He'll be fine. Lewis might have installed a temporary trigger, but you reminded him of one he's had for a long, long time. Show Hotch someone in need and it's like ringing the bell and raising the gate…No way you'll keep that horse from charging out and joining the race."

Spencer shrugged, but he couldn't keep his smile from spreading. "He's not gonna be able to go back to work for a few weeks until his shoulder heals. Wherever we are, we should call him…make sure he doesn't backslide."

"Not a problem." Dave poured the drinks and handed one to Reid. "But for now, let's enjoy a small victory. _Cin cin_…"

The two men clinked glasses.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What's up with creep-boy?"

The night guard at the Garrett County jail didn't like most of the inmates. But #7962 made his skin crawl. There was just something…off…about the slender, pale man with the narrow, calculating eyes.

During the long, dark hours before sunrise, the guard had time to explore his reaction to this particular prisoner. _Unholy. That's it. It's what my granny would've called an unholy shroud surrounding the guy._ But the guard was less poetic when coining his own description. _Creepy. A flat-out, full throttle creep._

His co-worker glanced up. "What d'you mean?"

"Why's Creep-boy so…I dunno…jumpin' around like a kid on Christmas morning? Can't hardly get the grin off his face. Kinda weird for a guy's facin' life. 'Specially a guy who's gonna get roughed up, bein' like he is."

His colleague shrugged. "Who knows…Take some advice from an old timer, man: don't try to get into their heads. Just do your job and keep clear. Got it?"

"Yeah. You're right. Got it."

The guard still felt uneasy, though, watching Lewis fairly bubble over with glee, a lurid grin plastered to his face. He would have felt even more alarmed had he known the unsub was thinking along similar lines…

_Tomorrow I can set things in motion. Haven't felt this way since I was a kid…waiting for Christmas morning…waiting to call poor, little Agent Hotchner…_


	44. Special Delivery

With Hotch eager to get home to Jack, and exhibiting more upbeat anticipation than worry, Reid and Rossi felt okay about letting him fly solo again. As long as they could check up on him.

Reid took off for his own apartment, satisfied with the progress in overcoming the Unit Chief's incipient phone phobia. He believed there was still work to do, but at its core was the man's own lack of confidence, which was understandable. Especially to Spencer.

Once you understood just how powerful the mind was, and how it could be turned by outside forces, it was difficult to regain trust in your own perceptions and reactions. Reid looked into his leader's dark eyes and asked himself if his _own_ mind was pushing him toward thinking normalcy for Hotch was just around the bend. Aaron was a touchstone for every member of his team. The young genius couldn't discount his own desire for business-as-usual to be the order of the day.

_He needs time. He'll be fine. And I'll call him while he's healing. I'll call him a __**lot**__. I'll get the others to help out, too._

Once Reid was gone, Dave helped pack Hotch's things for the ride to his apartment where Jessica was planning to drop Jack off. He was concerned about any number of things, but tried not to overwhelm the younger man with his fretting presence.

"Now, you know driving's not a good idea for a couple of weeks, don't you? If you have to make a grab for the wheel or any sudden movement, you could wrench the shoulder…set you back in the healing process."

"I know, Dave. Jessica said she'd take care of running errands and bringing Jack to school. I can ride along, but I won't drive for a while. Don't worry."

Rossi nodded, picking up Hotch's go-bag and glancing around the room to see if they'd forgotten anything. "If Jessica's busy, you can always call me…or any of the team. You know that, right?"

"Yes, Dave. I know. But you guys have work to do, and you might get called out into the field…" A note of longing tinged Aaron's words. He'd miss being actively involved. "…so if anything comes up and Jessica's busy, I'll call a cab or a car service. Don't. Worry."

Rossi walked into the hallway, turning to watch the younger man's careful steps as he followed. "It's not just the shoulder. You move like you're a little stiff. Be careful…_whatever_ you do."

Hotch expelled a long-suffering sigh. "I don't remember much, but, yeah, I kind of banged myself up. Nothing a couple of days won't cure though." He saw Dave's reproachful look. "_Except_ the shoulder. Got it. I'll be careful."

Rossi motioned for Aaron to go ahead of him. Hotch made an effort to move more smoothly, knowing he was being observed and catalogued by a very protective friend.

Once they were in Dave's BMW and headed toward the Unit Chief's side of town, Aaron spoke in a grave, quiet voice. "You know how grateful I am, don't you?"

Rossi glanced at his passenger. "Sure."

Hotch took a deep breath. "You put up with a lot from me these last few days and I want you to know…"

"Shut up." Dave's interruption made Aaron blink. It also made him shut up. Momentarily.

"No, seriously…"

"Be quiet, Aaron." Rossi could feel the dark eyes lingering on him. He ignored them in favor of keeping his own on the road, but after a minute felt an explanation was in order.

"I know, I know…I've been harping at you to talk yourself silly for days and now I'm telling you not to. Difference is, this time I know what you're going to say. And there's no need to thank any of us, Hotch. You said it yourself once…We are responsible for and to each other." One side of Rossi's mouth quirked upward. "I know you were talking about behavior in the field, but that qualification fell by the wayside for this team a long time ago. You should know that, being as you're a family man. I told you years ago that I'm more married to this bunch than I ever was to any of my three wives. So…you're my family. And Morgan's. And Reid's. And Garcia's. And even if J.J. and Kate have kin of their own that they live with, you still belong to them, too."

They were nearing Hotch's street. Rossi began to look for a parking space. When he found one and cut the engine, he gave his passenger a long look. "If you want to thank us for the last few days, do it by taking extra good care of yourself…and calling on us at the drop of a hat for _any_thing you might need…and coming back to us as soon as you can. Got it?"

Hotch nodded, eyes somber. "Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Rossi grinned. "Any time…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once everyone and everything was squared away, Hotch and Jack enjoyed a pizza and some quiet father-son time.

Jack was old enough to appreciate his father's job came with some rough knocks. He tried not to make much of Dad's injured arm and the sling that would be encumbering him for at least a couple of weeks, but Hotch could tell the boy was more worried than he let on.

_And why not! This job cost him his mother and every time something happens to me, it's another reminder of how quickly things can be taken away…of how fragile all the things and people he relies on truly are._ Aaron shook his head as he readied himself for bed; a process that was slow and clumsy and aggravating with his painful shoulder.

_At least, if I'm stuck at home, I can use the time to make my son feel more secure. We'll have meals together every day. We'll talk. I'll remind him that what happened to Haley was like a lightning strike: a freak occurrence that shouldn't color the rest of his life._ He grimaced at the irony of his own assertion.

_And, yes, I know that applies to me, too. Just because Peter Lewis got into my head, doesn't mean he or anyone can do it again. Like I said…a freak occurrence…Gotta hold onto that._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day dawned bright and cheerful.

Lewis was the poster-boy for a well-behaved inmate. He was quiet and quick and retired to his cell without comment or commotion. Some of the other prisoners weren't so cooperative. Their angry curses and threats shouted across the halls and down the corridors set some of the guards on edge.

Peter welcomed the rowdy background noise.

It covered his phone activity as he whispered into the precious device, turned into a corner of his bunk. Things took longer than he'd expected. He had to touch bases with several different establishments before he found one that had what he wanted and would make a delivery to the home of Agent Hotchner.

Lewis didn't know the Unit Chief was injured and would be there to answer the door. It didn't really matter. He thought that, with work, the man's son would be the one to receive the package.

That would be just fine.

After it was all arranged, the unsub hid his phone and laid in his bunk with his feet propped up, daydreaming about Agent Hotchner coming home after a long, hard day to find his son happily indulging in a large delivery of gummy worms.

Hundreds of them.

Red ones.

Just like the worms he'd told the sad, little FBI agent were burrowing into his brain. Just like the images he'd planted that had made Hotchner scream.

Lewis had a contented smile for the rest of the day as he waded through his eidetic memory and reviewed some of the horrors he'd pulled…and some that he'd planted…in unfortunate, little Agent Hotchner's mind.

Really, there was so much to work with. He was just getting started…


	45. Sugar Fix

It was an odd feeling being a stay-at-home dad.

Hotch wasn't sure he could get used to it. As he dealt with the challenge of cleaning up after breakfast while encumbered by a sling, he reminded himself that he wouldn't _have_ to get used to it. This was a temporary situation. He'd make the best of it. He'd mine some good from it. But eventually, he'd leave the house with his briefcase, go-bag, badge and gun, and it would be BAU business as usual.

_Gun._

Aaron closed his eyes as the dishwasher began to hum. He explored how he felt about picking up a firearm. When he opened them, there was no denying the troubled darkness deep within. He used to revel in his expertise as a marksman. 'Gifted' they'd called him when he'd worked SWAT. And that was saying something, coming from a select band of law enforcers who exceled above and beyond the proficiency expected of all officers.

But now, a cold lump of dread birthed its way into Hotch's stomach, pushing aside the toast and eggs, taking up what he prayed wouldn't be a permanent residence.

_It's another facet of Lewis's conditioning. That's all. I can work on it using the same tactics Reid did to get me to answer the phone._

He swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat. A small voice with a remarkable resemblance to Peter Lewis's whispered to him that, sure, he could make himself take incoming calls, but…be honest, Agent Hotchner…your heart still jumps and your lungs still constrict and you still aren't in control the way you used to be.

_Okay. Sure. But it'll get better with time. All that will fade with time._ He touched his sling with his good hand. _And I've __**got**__ time. Weeks of it. _

_I'll be fine._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

As the day wore on, Hotch began to relax.

The inactivity that he knew would bore him silly in a few days was novel at the start. His damaged body and psyche appreciated the easy rhythm of life with less expectations, less obligations. He wandered through the apartment, tidying in a desultory fashion, trying to glean therapeutic benefits from mundane tasks.

He thought about what he and Jack would have for dinner and decided it would be a treat for them both to indulge in take-out delivered to the door for the next few days…just until his shoulder felt better. Jessica had left some thoughtful items in the freezer with microwave instructions, but a father-son exploration of local eateries was appealing. It made Aaron's enforced idleness seem more vacation-like.

_Chinese tonight. Then maybe fried chicken or burgers, but with a salad to keep things balanced. Then Italian…_

It was like summoning an ancient, Roman god. No sooner did a vision of pasta and sauce flit across Hotch's mind, than the phone rang. His breath caught. His heart leapt. But he answered the call. And found a descendant from the land of pasta and sauce on the other end.

"How ya doin', Aaron?"

"Hi, Dave. I'm good. You? How's everything going down there? Any cases?"

Rossi ignored the questions. He knew they were camouflage intended to divert him from the real reason for his call. "You sound a little breathless. Is that the phone's fault?"

A pause. And then an answer laced with faint chagrin. "Yeah… But I answered it."

"Did you check the ID before doing so?"

Hotch's tone held a note of pride. "No. I just made myself pick-up."

"Good! But don't push yourself too hard. You've got time. You can experiment a little. Next time it rings, check the ID and see if that makes a difference. If it calms you down, do it on every call for a while." Rossi's voice lowered. "Give yourself time, Aaron. It'll come. You'll be fine."

Before Peter Lewis's advent into his life, Hotch would have considered Dave's suggestion to verge on the condescending. Now, he had to acknowledge that his respiration had increased to the point of being noticeable. He bit back the frustration with himself that made him want to say something sharp. Rossi didn't deserve to be a target. No one did, with the exception of Lewis himself.

Hotch spoke softly. "Yeah. It's just hard…you know?"

"I do. Be patient. Find other things to think about and before you know it, you'll be back."

Both men knew being 'back' didn't just mean work. It meant being back to normal; being back in control. Being back to feeling alpha and vital and relevant again.

Hotch wanted that so badly, he could almost taste it.

"Okay. I will."

"Good. Now, go find a good book or something. I'll talk to you later."

The connection closed. Aaron felt his adrenaline ebb. He eyed his cell. It was like having an unsub in the house. He didn't trust it.

He decided to trust in Rossi instead, and follow his instructions.

Hotch found a book, settled himself and his aching shoulder, and let his mind be drawn into a fictional world where he wasn't the one at risk. It was nice for a change.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Unit Chief knew what his team was doing.

He was grateful and amused and ashamed all at once.

He'd been lost in his book, a tale of espionage and national security, when his stomach gave a loud growl. If he'd been at work, Hotch would have ignored it. But here at home, he had the luxury…no, the _obligation_…to let his physical needs take priority. He levered himself out of his chair just as the phone rang.

Mindful of Rossi's suggestion, he checked the ID. Reid.

"Hi, Hotch. How're you feeling?"

After a short, congenial conversation, Aaron resumed his quest to quiet his noisy digestive system.

Another phone call as he rummaged in his fridge for the makings of a sandwich. Morgan.

"Hey, man. 'Sup?"

They were using their lunch hour to check up on him. Hotch smiled. And felt ashamed. And grateful. By the time he managed to assemble a midday meal, every member of the team had called. Short, cheerful conversations that boosted his spirits and made him all the more determined to resume his pre-Lewis life with minimal scarring.

Mood brightened, Aaron ate a sizeable lunch and felt pleased with the world in general and his team in particular.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch thought he'd done well with the phone exercises.

When the buzzer for his apartment shrilled later that afternoon, it didn't faze him at all. He had no qualms about visitors or salesmen or poll-takers or whoever else might be ringing for admittance. Ever since George Foyet, he'd been more cautious about security in general. He had an alarm system, but the intervening years had erased the heart-tripping anxiety he'd had for a time whenever there was an unexpected knock at the door.

As he went to answer, Hotch mused about his progress since The Reaper. Grim as the memories were, he had to admit, he _had_ recovered. He didn't cringe anymore. Rossi was right. Time would heal him.

_And I was right, too, in what I told Jack: that was a freak occurrence. Won't happen again. Just like Lewis was a freak occurrence. He's out of my life._

Hotch checked through the peephole, saw a uniformed delivery boy whose nametag proclaimed him an employee of Welchel's Candy Emporium. Puzzled, he opened the door and accepted the large cardboard carton.

He brought it inside and set it on the kitchen table, a smile touching his lips.

_Jessica must have sent something over for Jack. Probably sorry for any kid who has to put up with a dad hovering around all day for a couple of weeks._

He fished a knife out of the silverware drawer and began the clumsy task of opening the package with his right hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack never saw the present from Welchel's.

As soon as Hotch did, he vomited his lunch all over the glowing, red gummy worms that he knew couldn't be writhing and hissing. They just _couldn't_ be…

…no matter how clear the image and sounds were in his mind.


	46. Case Interruptus

The case came through in the late afternoon. Child abduction. Montana.

The team grabbed their gear and made last minute calls to arrange for pets to be cared for and mail to be gathered. Everyone missed hearing Hotch announce 'wheels up,' his voice gruff with adrenaline, eager to be off. They wished he could be with them, but it was also good to know the injured Unit Chief was safe and well and home for the duration.

Rossi decided to call from the jet to let Aaron know where they'd be.

But his phone rang before they'd even reached the airstrip. He frowned, noting the caller ID.

"Jessica? Is everything okay?"

The voice that came back at him was trying very hard to keep frantic, bounding emotion under control. "Dave! No! Everything's _not_ okay. Please, can you come over? I know you're working, but…please? I'm at Aaron's."

Jack's aunt sounded panicked, but Rossi also got the impression she was trying to avoid being overheard. His mind spun as he tried to assemble all the little impressions and clues into a cogent picture. His professional reflexes came into play, rendering his voice calm and commanding.

"Jessica. Breathe. Calm down." He took a breath himself, following his own advice. "Do you need to call 911?"

"No. No, I…I don't think so." She was marginally calmer; just having someone to talk to was helping her regain control.

"Alright then. This is not a life-or-death emergency. Correct?"

"No. I mean, yes…that's…that's correct." Rossi could hear her voice leveling out; hysteria averted.

"That's good. This is _not_ an emergency." Dave would repeat that as many times as necessary to keep Jessica on track. "Where's Jack?"

"He's…he's in his room. I told him to do his homework. But…but that won't take long!...And…and then he'll come out!...and…and…" The panic began to ramp up again.

"Jessica! This is _not_ an emergency. No one's life is in danger."

When the woman's tiny, frightened voice responded, Rossi's blood chilled.

"I'm not sure about that, Dave! S-someone's _after_ h-i-i-i-i-m!" She ended on a thin, keening wail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once Rossi heard the story of how Jessica had brought Jack home from school to find Hotch on the kitchen floor dry heaving, having already emptied his stomach over the contents of a box that had been delivered, he was torn.

But only for a moment.

His next question had been to ask what was in the box. When Jessica told him, Rossi's own stomach dropped. As far as he knew, he was the only one Hotch had told about the visual image Lewis had used, looping Aaron's torment back to his son; seeding the most precious relationship in the man's life with psychological landmines.

Dave told Jessica he was on his way. Then, he turned to his team, all of whom were aware something terrible had reared its head on the homefront.

"I'll catch up with you guys in Missoula as soon as I can."

"It's okay, Rossi." Reid's eyes were so huge with concern they appeared luminous in the rays of the setting sun. More than anyone else, he knew the terror of the mind. Of doubting one's own sanity. "We've done it this way before…when Hotch was in surgery. We'll see you when we see you."

"Yeah, but call us with updates, man." Morgan was in the process of assuming the mantle of leadership. Privately, he added 'make Bossman proud' to his mental list of hoped-for accomplishments. First, was 'get the kid back safe.' Second was 'get the guy who nabbed her.' He hoped achieving numbers one and two would automatically make three happen.

Derek herded the team up the portable staircase and through the hatch. He turned for one last word with Rossi.

"Maybe you shouldn't mention we're on a case. Hotch's guilt-chip will go into overdrive if he thinks he's impeding us in any way…you know?"

Dave nodded. He hadn't considered that. His mind was filled to capacity with imagined monsters and unsubs, knowing the worst his brain could conceive was nothing compared to Aaron's reality.

"Like I said, I'll join up with you guys as soon as I can." He gripped Morgan's hand. "Just do what you do, Derek. You'll be fine."

Morgan held Dave's hand longer than necessary. "Tell Bossman I know how long it takes to mend the stuff that gets into you deep. Tell him I won't let him _not_ heal, okay?"

Rossi granted his teammate a half-smile, but it was grim. "What are you gonna do, kid?...beat healing into him?"

"No, man." There was no levity at all in Derek's expression. "I'll hug it into him. If he won't take it from you, he'll take it from me. I won't give him any choice."

The older man's smile faded. _We both know what Aaron needs. He's lived a life devoid of loving support…in his childhood…in his marriage. He needs it now, more than ever._

"I'll tell him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Jessica had found Hotch, she'd shielded Jack from him.

It had taken all she had to paste a bright, fake smile on her face. She'd blocked entry to the kitchen with her own body, telling her nephew that his father was in the middle of something 'work-related' and it would be best if the boy got a start on his homework while she saw about getting dinner ready.

Jack knew something was wrong. He'd grown up in a house where his father's job was steeped in secrecy and censorship. Young as he was when his parents had split up, he'd known Mom had blamed it all on Dad's work. He'd heard her talk to Aunt Jess about how she'd had to scan each room to be sure it was clear of crime scene photos and other distasteful leavings of her husband's career in an effort to protect her son from such ugliness.

Well-trained, Jack turned his back and trudged to his room, ears tuned for anything he might pick up that could explain Aunt Jess's tight voice and tighter smile.

He heard her on the phone, but in tones too hushed for easy eavesdropping. But he did catch the gist of it.

Dad was in trouble.

Jack bent his head over his homework and felt sick with worry.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch struggled to pull himself together.

He knew Jack was in the apartment. That, more than anything, spurred him on. But it also made things worse. Visions of his son with a ruby-red gummy worm drooping from his lips, eyes alight with mischief…_Look, Dad!_...as he slurped it with noisy abandon, meshed with the images Lewis had crafted.

Hotch leaned over and clutched his hair with his one good hand, trying to dispel the feeling of molten worms threading their way through his skull. Time slowed, or maybe it didn't exist, as he wrestled with them.

When a strong pair of arms encircled him, lifting and enveloping at the same time, he welcomed the pain the embrace caused in his shoulder. It was something else to focus on. It gave him a portal to move out of the endless maze of his mind.

Rossi's voice completed his rescue. "Aaron…Aaron…Calm down, Aaron…I've got you…I've got you…" And Dave remembered the resolve in Morgan's eyes as he'd threatened to hug Hotch into submission. "…I've got you. And I'm not letting go."

"Promise…" It was all Aaron could rasp out at the moment.

Rossi tightened his grip in answer, his eyes were already searching the carton for any clues to who could have sent it.

_God help us all if Peter Lewis has a partner._


	47. A Tapestry of Triggers

"Jack, your father's sick. I…I think it's, uh, flu…some bug going around, you know? So you're going to come stay with me for a couple of days. Just 'til Dad feels better. It'll be fun. We'll do stuff."

Jessica didn't fool her nephew at all.

There had been too many times his father had been battered and bruised and had told Jack he was 'fine' when the boy could see the strain and suffering etched across his features. Too many times when excuses were made for Mommy's anger and Daddy's sad eyes.

Jack knew what his father's anguish looked like. And he could see it now as the shaky, distracted man emerged from the kitchen, supported by his friend, Mr. Rossi.

"Don't worry, buddy. I'm fine. I don't want you catching whatever this is, so go with Aunt Jess, okay? Be good. Do what she tells you. And I'll see you in a couple days."

Hotch disengaged from Rossi, leaned down and gave his son a fierce, one-armed hug, burying his nose in the angle between the boy's neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. _Mine. __**My**__ son. I will __**not**__ let this affect him. I…will…__**not**__…_ But there was no escaping Jack's dejected expression when his father released him.

"We were gonna be together every day while you were home." It fell short of an accusation, but the disappointment in his boy's tone lanced through Hotch's heart.

For the second time, Rossi came to Aaron's rescue. He dropped to one knee, confronting Jack at eye-level. "Your Dad has a dislocated shoulder, kid. Did he tell you what that's like? I mean, how long it takes to heal?"

The child's eyes strayed to his father's sling. He was reluctant to say anything that could be construed as criticism of Dad. He'd loved his mother, but whenever she had expressed her disapproval of her husband, Jack had felt an inexplicable sadness…as though he were being disloyal to his father just by hearing Mom's words. And he loved his father more than anything in the world. He wouldn't tell Mr. Rossi that Dad had made light of his injury, the way he made light of everything that hurt him to make it hurt _less_ for Jack.

So the boy looked back at Rossi and said, "I didn't ask. Not Dad's fault."

Dave blinked. He hadn't been casting aspersions. It was telling that Hotch's son came to his defense like that. It told Rossi that Jack was sensitive to anything that even so much as _implied_ his father had done something wrong. _Or maybe that he'd done something less than perfect…_

"It's nobody's fault. But dislocated shoulders hurt a lot. And they take a while to heal. He'll be around for a couple of weeks at least. And then he might be on light duty, so he'll be forced to work short hours. The thing is…" Rossi grinned. "…you and your Dad are gonna have a lot of together-time even with him getting sick right now and having to shave a couple days off the time you thought you had."

Jack searched the older man's eyes. Found nothing to doubt in them. But there _was_ something else going on. He could feel it.

Maybe someday someone would explain. For now, he'd go with Aunt Jess and save the questions for that never-seems-to-come day when he'd be 'old enough' to understand the dark patches he knew existed in the adult world. Especially in Dad's world.

"Okay. I'll get my stuff."

The boy went to gather what he'd need for school and for a couple of days away.

Back turned, he didn't see his father exhale and lean against Rossi.

But he could sense it.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Once Jack and Jessica were gone, Dave brought Hotch to the living room and sat him down with a glass of water and one of the painkillers prescribed for his shoulder.

"Take it, Aaron. It'll relax you, and I don't have time to argue about it."

Now that his son wasn't there to bear witness to his father's weakness, Hotch let himself shiver with the emotion he'd been suppressing as he'd said goodbye to the boy. His hand shook as he took the medicine from Rossi. The older man had to steady his friend when his trembling sloshed some of the water over the glass's rim.

"Sip it slowly. Try to relax. And when you can, tell me if there's any chance those things were sent by someone who knows you have a kid who likes them."

Hotch's breathing was still shallow, his chest and stomach muscles tight with tension. "I don't think so. Jessica and I know. And you…I told you…and…and…" He looked up at Rossi with helpless dread, eyes pleading. He couldn't even speak Lewis's name. And he hated that it had that much power over him. Still. After all they'd been through. _Still_.

_And forever?_ The question burned in his heart.

Dave rubbed Aaron's good shoulder. He focused on using his skills to interview a victim. "Is there any chance the parents of a friend or schoolmate of Jack's could have sent them?"

Hotch forced himself to consider the possibility. After a moment, he had to admit… "I don't know. I don't think so. I mean…I wouldn't send any of Jack's friends something like that. Not without speaking to their parents first."

His eyes flicked toward the kitchen where the soiled carton of candy seemed to dominate the room. "And that's a pretty big expenditure for a kid. Did you see how m-many…? Did you _see_?!" His voice cracked.

Rossi tapped Aaron's wrist, indicating he should drink some more water. "Yes. I saw. Stay calm. We'll figure this out. You stay here. Finish your water. Try to think if there's anyone older…a kid who could buy something like that…who might send it to Jack as a prank." He stood, letting his fingers linger on Hotch's shoulder, knowing a current of comfort was passing through them to his troubled colleague. "I'm gonna go have a better look at that box. And make a couple phone calls."

The Unit Chief locked eyes with Rossi. The older man could tell he didn't want to be left alone. All the security and confidence they'd worked on retrieving for him in the wake of Peter Lewis's conditioning had fled. Dave hoped it was temporary. Time would tell.

He took a tentative step toward the kitchen. "It's okay, Aaron. I'm gonna call the Garrett County jail and find out if Lewis has been given any privileges he shouldn't…like internet access. I'm gonna call Garcia and get her on the case. And I'm gonna call Reid and see if that super-computer in his head can think of anything we haven't." He took a deep breath, on the verge of disappearing into the other room. "I'll be right here. I'm not going away…"

Belatedly, only after Hotch's eyes closed in agonized remembrance, Rossi recalled that phrase had been Lewis's trigger.

He'd managed to subvert words that should have been comforting.

No matter how much time passed, Aaron would always flinch at that phrase.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"No, sir. Inmate Lewis has been a model prisoner lately. Does what he's told. Goes where he's told. Spends most of his time in his cell. He's only had a couple visits with his attorney…guy named Swanson. Otherwise, he doesn't have contact with the outside at all. Hasn't even asked for any more phone privileges. And we wouldn't give him computer time even if he _did_ ask for it. Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing to worry about. Just a routine check on Lewis's status, that's all." Rossi preferred to keep all the details private. It was possible the unsub had procured help from a guard or other jail employee.

Everyone was under suspicion until they knew more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm on it."

Garcia's lips, layered with Revlon's Bright Sunrise Coral, pressed into a grim line as Rossi gave her what he could glean from the packaging. It was precious little…only the name Welchel's Candy Emporium…but it was all they had.

"See if you can find a trail, Penelope. It was delivered to Hotch's, so someone paid for it and gave them the address. Call me back as soon as you find anything."

"In a flash, O' Descendant of Gladiators…"

Dave could hear the storm of keystrokes even as he cut the connection.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"That's all we have so far, guys."

Rossi's words traveled through the speakerphone, bringing the team up to date at 30,000 feet, halfway to Montana.

"That's weird, man." Morgan's anger simmered on his leader's behalf. "So you think Lewis has someone working with him? A partn…?"

"No." Reid interrupted. "He wouldn't work with anyone. He's a sociopath with delusions of superiority that preclude his ever being able to consider someone else worthy of working alongside him." Spencer's certainty couldn't be doubted. "He doesn't have a partner. He's doing this himself. He either set it all up before he was arrested, or he's found a way to keep operating from behind bars."

"That's a scary thought." Kate and J.J. exchanged glances. They were just beginning to grasp the full horror of what their boss had been through these last few days.

"Well, you guys concentrate on the case, but if you think of anything that might help, give a shout." Rossi's voice was tired. "I don't know if I should join you or stay here at this point. Hotch doesn't look so good."

"Stay. We're good. We got this." Morgan was in full command by his tone. Dave felt reassured in following his heart and staying with Aaron.

"Wait a minute…" Reid frowned, chewing on his lip for all he was worth as his brain grasped and pulled from its considerable fund of data. "Rossi, find out if there's something about the color red. It's just a hunch, but Hotch was set off by my red scarf…and I know that we thought it was because of blood…but the gummy worms are red, too. Maybe it's nothing…but…" He shrugged, always so willing to discount his own contributions.

"It's not 'nothing,' kid. It's more than we had a second ago. Garcia's on the case. I'll ask Hotch about the color thing."

"No!…" Spencer leaned toward the speakerphone, anxious to make himself understood. "_Show_ it to him. Show him something red and see if there's a reaction."

"What…like a second trigger? I thought you said Lewis didn't have enough time to do more than one."

"I don't think he did. But what if he wove a sensory experience into the one he did install?"

Every member of the team looked confused. Reid hastened to explain.

"He did the aural thing with the words…the phrase. What if it was so powerful in Hotch because Lewis made it multi-faceted? He…he used visual with a color, maybe? And…and…th-that…" The young genius was caught up in his theory, beginning to trip over his own tongue in an effort to keep pace with his own lightning thoughts.

"Reid! Slow down." Morgan caught his teammate's eye, trying to calm without discouraging.

But Rossi had caught on. His voice crackled at them. "So, if he used a visual aspect, too…then he could have used an olfactory one…and a tactile one…and taste…woven them all together?"

"Maybe." Reid was excited by the concept, but dampened by the reality of it having been inflicted on their leader. "Maybe…if the color thing gets a reaction…maybe…" He licked his lips, chapped from being chewed so much.

"Then we'll have to find the others, too." Rossi's words fell among them like lead.

"Otherwise, Hotch'll never be free…"


	48. Roses, Rubies, Stoplights, Blood

Rossi closed the connection and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

He lingered in the kitchen for a moment, thoughts racing. _Reid was right. If we'd asked Hotch what the trigger phrase was, he wouldn't have been able to tell us. So if I ask him about the color red, he won't be able to recognize it as…what did the kid call them at first?...Oh, yeah…__**anchors**__. He wouldn't know if red was set as one._ Rossi swallowed a small rush of bile in the back of his throat. _So __**if**__ there are a whole nest of anchors in him, and __**if**__ he can't identify them for us, then how the hell are we supposed to find them? _

The answer wasn't much comfort. _We have to watch Aaron like hawks; put him under a microscope and keep him there in hopes of stumbling across more landmines in his psyche. Damn. That'll make him feel like a liability rather than a leader._

Rossi squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself a mental shake. _Getting way too far ahead of myself here. First things first. If red doesn't elicit some kind of emotional response, then I'm worrying about nothing._

He glanced around the kitchen, looking for something red…and frowned. There was nothing he would consider a true, fire engine red. Or an apple red. Or a ruby red. Nothing with the clear, bright hue to qualify it as quintessentially red. His frown deepened. _Come to think of it, I don't ever recall Aaron wearing a true red…except in the print of a tie, and that was usually interspersed with patterns that made it less noticeable as pure red. And he probably only wears those because it's part of the FBI uniform that's like a second skin to him._

Rossi did a quick, efficient search, opening cupboards and drawers, digging into the back of every storage space. The less he found, the odder it seemed, and the more probable that there was a connection to the color red that Lewis had excavated from some deep place in Hotch's past.

Finally, Dave's eye was caught by the bright flash of a label on a can of cleanser in a cupboard beneath the sink. He pulled the garish item from the back where it had been pushed…either by neglect or design…and, bracing himself, went to confront Hotch.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The team were a subdued lot for the rest of the flight to Montana.

At first there'd been some sporadic conversation about their Unit Chief as Reid and Morgan shared more of their experiences over the last few days. But then each agent retreated into his or her own thoughts.

J.J. kept glancing at Derek. His eyes and nose were still puffy and bruised. When he caught her staring, he sighed. "What up, Pennsylvania Petite? Think I'm gonna scare the locals lookin' like I do?"

"No…no…sorry. Just thinking about how even the weirdest fiction can become real life."

The statement caught the others' attention.

"What d'you mean?" Kate gave her colleague a puzzled look.

"I think I know." Reid's soft voice interjected. His eyes were disturbingly sad as they locked with J.J.'s. "Harry Potter, right?"

"Yeah." The corners of J.J.'s lips trembled.

"What? The kid's books?"

"I'm not so sure they're just for kids, Derek. Henry wants to read them. He already has this thing about monsters, so I thought I'd see if they would be too scary for him." J.J. shrugged. "So I read them myself first."

"And?"

Reid stepped in, seeing the misty look in J.J's eyes. "I think she's talking about the concept of the 'Horcrux.' It was an object that could hold a piece of a soul. The bad guy in the series…Voldemort…tried to attain immortality by divvying his soul up and secreting the bits into different objects."

Morgan's eyes were narrow. "That's dumb. Impossible. But what does it have to do with Hotch?"

"Nothing. It's just the only way to defeat the bad guy was to destroy the things into which he'd anchored his soul. The whole story turned into a quest to find them all." Reid looked away, lips beginning to twist and chew with inner distress. "Just feels like we might need to look for a whole bunch of things that are anchored into Hotch…That might be the only way to defeat our bad guy, too."

A few beats of silence followed the young genius's explanation.

Morgan turned to stare out the window as they began their approach for landing.

"That _is_ weird. I sure hope you're wrong about it all, Pretty Boy. But if you're not…I guess we'll be hunting anchors when we get back." He looked around at his teammates. "And this Harry guy won in the end, right?"

"He did." J.J.'s voice was almost a whisper. "But it was a really hard journey. A lot of people got hurt…killed. I decided not to let Henry read them all. Not yet anyway."

Reid buckled his seatbelt. "I wonder if Jack's read them all."

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi wasn't sure how to proceed.

There was nothing in his profiler's training or experience to tell him the best way to push a colleague's hidden buttons in a way that wouldn't traumatize him, when the whole point was to find that concealed trauma in the first place.

In the end he opted to use the element of surprise. It was a cruel thing to do, if it worked. But Dave told himself it was for the greater good of locating Hotch's wounds so they could be healed. He clutched the can of cleaner behind his back as he entered the living room.

Hotch looked marginally better. He'd finished almost the whole glass of water and, judging by the glazed sheen in his eyes, the painkiller was starting to work on him.

Rossi felt a surge of protective pity wash over him. _The guy's such a lightweight when it comes to drugs...Lewis wouldn't have known that, but it would have made his work go deeper and harder than even he would have expected. Of all of us, Hotch is the most susceptible._ He felt his throat tighten. _Aw, Aaron…I wish it had been me._

"So what'd you find out?" The Unit Chief sounded a little fuzzy around the edges, but calmer.

"Not much. Just started some wheels rolling is all." Rossi swallowed his anxiety at what he was about to do.

Hotch could tell, even in a druggy fog, that something was wrong. "Dave? What is it?"

Rossi felt like a matador brandishing a red cape at a bull. He was torn as to how he hoped the bull would react. If it didn't charge, then he would have to accept that the single trigger had left so much damage behind, Hotch would need longer than any of them thought to recover. If the bull _did_ charge, it would almost be preferable.

_We'll know this weakness and frailty we're seeing now isn't innate. It's an outside influence. It can be traced to a cause and the cause can be dealt with. But then, too, we'll have to keep searching through him. And that will be no small task._

The older man pulled the can wrapped in a bright red label from behind him, holding it directly before Aaron's eyes.

Hotch stared, pupils dilating. He recoiled, moving as far away from can as the couch allowed, pressing himself into the corner formed by the armrest. He didn't attack. For that, Rossi was grateful. Yet, he hated the naked dread in Aaron's eyes.

Dave kept his voice steady and authoritative.

"Reid has a theory, and I think he's right. The only way I'll know for sure is if you can tell me right now what you're thinking…what you're feeling…Talk to me…"

Hotch sounded strained. "I…I hate the color red. I _really_ hate it." He dragged his gaze away from the can, transferring it to Rossi.

For a few beats the men stared at each other, searching: Rossi for information concerning the origins of the Unit Chief's hate. Hotch for the reason why his trusted friend was subjecting him to this additional torment when he already felt as though he'd shattered into an irretrievable spray of shards.

And then Aaron understood.

Damaged and hurting, his mind was still capable of assembling the pieces of his own demise.

"Oh, God. Dave…this was another one, wasn't it? This is more conditioning from L-Lewis?"

"I'm not sure. Reid thinks there might be more." Rossi set the stoplight-colored can aside. "Once you were aware of the trigger phrase, you were free of it. Maybe that'll happen now."

Hotch gave his head a miserable shake. "I don't think I'll ever _not_ hate red."

"No, but maybe you won't have the violent reaction you did when you saw red gummy worms. Tell me…tell me why, Aaron. What is it about red?"

The younger man's eyes closed, head drooping. His voice was thready and somehow younger when he spoke. "When I was a kid. A red belt. My dad used to whip me with a red belt…" Hotch curled in on himself, holding his hurt arm close. "He really enjoyed it…Ol' Red…Called it Ol' Red…"

It had been an act of courage to reveal that detail of a wretched childhood. Rossi knew that.

Hotch's cringing posture told him his friend was still trying to escape it.

_And now that twisted unsub, Lewis, has enslaved him with it all over again._


	49. Stories of Eld, and Not So

When some of the horror had drained…or rather, when the effects of the painkiller had muffled it, Hotch found it easier to talk.

He still wanted Rossi to stay close. That was fine with Dave. He wanted to explore Aaron's mind and how Peter Lewis had interacted with it. He hoped to have something substantive to present to the others. He reasoned that, even if he couldn't solve the equation of the Unit Chief's damage, maybe Reid could process whatever information he gleaned and see some correlation that would help them.

Rossi held Hotch close; one arm across his shoulders, careful of the injured one.

"So now you remember a little of how Lewis worked? Now that we have two of the anchors he set in you?"

Aaron nodded. "It's hard to describe. It was like a disjointed journey through my life. Through the worst parts. I'm not sure of anything. Like a bad dream, I remember wanting to escape the pain of it, of him, of the…the worms in my brain. That was when he kept whispering 'I'm not going away.'" Hotch's eyes closed against the recollected agony. "It was like a curse. Like his promise it would never end."

Rossi rubbed the back of his friend's neck, wishing he could erase the experience with a touch…knowing he couldn't. "And you remembered that _after_ you found out those words were the trigger. So…what about the color red? How could Lewis have known?"

"He didn't. I told him. God help me, I told him."

"He…he hypnotized you?"

Hotch gave his head an impatient shake. "I don't know. I think…I think he asked me questions. About pain. About fear. He wanted to know the worst I'd ever known." He turned, meeting Rossi's searching gaze. "I remembered it as though I were reliving it. And he was…I don't know…_watching_, I guess. I told him the worst parts of my life."

"You couldn't help it."

Rossi studied the younger man, wondering if he should let him rest, let him acclimate to this new knowledge of his time with the unsub…or push forward and tell him that, if Reid was right, there could be more remnants of pain and fear lurking deep, waiting their turn to pounce. _Forewarned is forearmed._

"Aaron, listen to me…"

He related all that they suspected about the landmines that could be waiting to explode inside their Unit Chief. Dave was glad for the dampening effect of the medicine.

It let him tell himself that the distant, glassy horror reflected in Hotch's eyes was just the drug…was just transitory.

And that it would fade.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis was feeling sour.

He was realizing that destroying Agent Hotchner was no fun if he couldn't watch it happen. Well…that wasn't _quite_ true. He enjoyed imagining the man's torture; the wretched misery in those deep, brown eyes. But it was like fun-once-removed. Like watching fireworks on TV instead of sitting beneath a dark sky and experiencing the flash and glitter of a thousand explosions.

Imagining wasn't immediate enough for Peter.

In fact, nothing was enough for Peter.

And another thing…his brain, by the very nature of its intellect, couldn't stop toying with the idea that there might be a way to make his situation more tolerable. It mulled things over at lightning speed, spewing out possibilities like coins from a slot machine.

One little coin began to shine with special promise. It caught Lewis's attention. He began to examine it, turning it over and over and over.

Maybe there was still a way to come out on top. Or at least satisfy his desire to see how his sad, little, pet FBI agent was doing.

Peter Lewis stretched out on his bunk and grinned.

The purchase from Welchel's Candy Emporium had been a maiden voyage when it came to discovering ways to use his phone. He'd accessed Craig's List and found an errand runner who'd followed his instructions. He'd been able to tap into his bank and transfer funds to the woman's account. He'd told her to withdraw some and pay cash for the gummy worms, leaving sweet, little Aaron's address for them to make the delivery.

He was sure there was no way it could be traced.

He was also sure they'd suspect he was behind it immediately. And that was half the fun.

_I'm in control and you can't stop me. _

Peter was sure that, given time, Agent Hotchner and his friends would be willing to do almost anything to get their leader back to normal. All he had to do was keep the pressure on until they realized what he already knew: the only one who could save sad, little Aaron, was the one who damaged him in the first place.

Lewis smiled. It was time to select another little treat from the agent's life-of-horror to bring roaring to the fore.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The night guard made his rounds, checking to be sure everyone was locked down and in bed.

Something flashed in the ambient light as he strolled past the cell containing Inmate #7962. Immediately suspicious, the guard clicked his flashlight on, training it on the prisoner.

Lewis was in bed, as he should be, but he was grinning widely…maniacally…from ear to ear. The glint that had caught the guard's eye was from the prisoner's wet, white teeth.

If possible, the man's lips stretched even wider as he saw the discomfiture on the guard's face.

_Creep-boy. Pure and simple. Creepiest Creep-boy that ever creeped his way through here._

The guard shivered and continued on his way.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi put Hotch to bed.

He sat by the younger man's side, wishing there were some brand of comfort that could ease him. It was dreadful to sit in silence, watching Aaron lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, knowing he was running over the same ground again and again.

_He's trying to figure out what else Lewis used. He's reliving it all, but if he thinks of something, you can bet it won't be a trigger. He won't be able to identify them until they've been fired._

"Hotch, stop it. Don't do this to yourself. We'll figure it out somehow, but it won't happen with you torturing yourself. All that does is play into Lewis's hands even more."

"I can't stop thinking about it, Dave." Aaron turned his head the merest fraction, looking up into Rossi's eyes. "I don't know how to stop."

"Try." Dave cast about for anything that might help. "Think of the stories you used to read to Jack at bedtime. Tell me what kind of things he liked to hear."

Hotch's eyes drifted shut, but opened after a minute or two. At first, Rossi didn't understand the leaden sorrow in his friend's words. But then he did.

"There was a time when kings rode out to war…There was a once-upon-a-time when leaders led the charge and took the helm in battle." The BAU Unit Chief's eyes opened, blandly honest and disconcerting in their acceptance. "I'll never be able to do that again."

Dave's shoulders sagged. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. You'll never be able to know for sure that something won't set me off. You won't be able to trust me. You'd have to keep half your attention on me, when the case should take total focus. I know it. So do you."

Rossi didn't see the point in false bravado. There was too much truth in Hotch's assessment. "That's a possibility. But it's not time to throw in the towel yet. You've never been a quitter, Aaron. You're the first one to say that until you find a body, you will always believe that a victim's alive."

He rested a hand on Hotch's chest. "Give yourself the same benefit of the doubt that you'd give any other lost child."

Aaron's eyes filled, but they didn't overflow.

Rossi considered that a minor victory.


	50. The Unexpected Value of Dental Hygiene

"How's Bossman doing?"

Morgan made the call, but the whole team was gathered around, listening as he put Rossi on speakerphone.

"Reid was right. The color red was another one. Now he's running himself ragged mentally trying to second-guess Lewis and predict what other anchors, or triggers, or whatever you wanna call them are waiting to go off."

Reid leaned in, raising his voice over the hum of activity taking place outside the PD headquarters conference room to which the team had retired for some privacy to check on their leader. "What happened when you showed Hotch red? Did he attack?"

"No. Just the opposite. He flinched away and huddled up, trying to escape it. He didn't attack the way the trigger phrase made him."

"That's good! That's good…" Reid's enthusiasm didn't transfer across the miles to Rossi.

"I guess. But all it means is there _are_ more of these things."

"No! Rossi, it means that we're on the right track. I thought Hotch was more of an auditory person than anything else. His reaction supports that. The really good part of that is that I bet any other triggers won't be as violent a reaction as that first one that linked with his dominant sense. If there are more…"

"Reid!" Dave cut into the genius's hopeful outpouring. "His reaction was _very_ violent to his first encounter with red. No…make that his first encounter_s_…_plural_. When he saw your scarf and when he opened up that package with red candy in it, both times he vomited his guts out. That's pretty violent in my book."

"Okay, okay…" Spencer struggled to slow himself down and communicate more effectively. Just because the concept was fully formed and glowing in his brain, didn't mean it was accessible to others. "Maybe 'violent' isn't the right word. Hotch wasn't _aggressive_ with the color trigger. It fired multiple times, but when you disarmed it by naming it…making him aware of it…that wasn't a violent or aggressive reaction. And now he's free of it. This is good, Rossi!"

A despondent sigh ghosted its way over the connection. "Maybe. He doesn't see it that way. And I have to agree to a certain extent. He's a walking time bomb. If we don't know what will set him off, we'll always be watching him…waiting…How's he gonna work if we're scrutinizing him every minute?"

"Just like he always does, man." Morgan's voice was rough with remembered angst. "This sounds like me and Hotch right after Foyet stabbed him. You remember? We went a coupla rounds, you and me, Rossi. And Bossman wasn't himself, but he kept at it. Thing is, this time it won't be as bad, 'cause I won't think he's got ending himself in the back of his mind."

The team couldn't see Dave rubbing his brow and shaking his head, but his tone carried frustrated denial. "That was different, Derek. He was angry and depressed, but he had a goal to work toward: getting Foyet so he could have his family back. This time there's no outside unsub to hunt. The 'bad guy' is _inside_ Hotch. That undermines his faith in himself. Without that…"

The sentence trailed off, leaving each of the Unit Chief's team to imagine how it would feel to have the underpinnings of one's identity unhinged; to have the foundation rotted and weakened from the inside out.

J.J.'s voice broke the silence. "Maybe there aren't any more. I mean Lewis only had Hotch to himself for a few hours. How much could he do?"

"Enough. He's already done enough even if it's only the two triggers." Rossi's words had an unaccustomed note of defeat.

"Hotch doesn't handle drugs well, J.J.," Reid said. "So they hit him harder and made him more susceptible to the unsub's suggestions. In fact…" He drew a nervous breath, unhappy about painting an even darker picture. "…those suggestions went in harder than they did any of Lewis's other victims, I bet. And those others were severely damaged. It takes a lot to make someone who doesn't have suicidal tendencies kill himself. It takes a tremendous psychological shove to make someone abandon their ethics and values and commit murder. Hotch got hit even harder. It went past suggestion to unavoidable command."

"But the worst one was the auditory one," Kate clarified. "And you guys got that. So the worst hurdle Hotch has to get over now is his own self-doubt, right?"

A pause ensued, while each person turned over what, on the face of it, sounded almost hopeful.

"But in an alpha male, that's like the basic building block that everything else rests on." Reid sighed. "If it were me, it wouldn't be so bad. But for Hotch, it's…it's like cutting the hamstrings of an alpha wolf. If he can't run with the pack, he fades away. Gives up. No reason to go on."

"Jack's his reason." Morgan's statement was definitive, allowing no debate when it came to their boss's devotion to his son.

"But that's a double-edged sword, Derek. Hotch'd never trust himself around Jack if he thinks he might lose control at the drop of a hat. So, this kind of robs him of his family again…just like when Foyet happened." Rossi hated being the voice of doom, but it had to be said if they were ever to find Aaron a way out of his seemingly unnavigable, mental maze.

It was too much for Morgan. The thought of his Bossman being shredded emotionally yet again was more than he could hear without a surge of rage on the man's behalf.

"This can't happen, Rossi. Not again. You give me 10 minutes alone in a room with that sniveling little worm. Turn the cameras off and he'll tell me exactly what triggers he set in Hotch. I'll have him begging to be allowed to remove them!" Derek's voice was tight with anger. He kept seeing Lewis's smirking visage when they'd found him. It was bad enough when an unsub hurt one of the team, but when it provided such an immense amount of amusement, openly displayed, it went past a line for him. "Seriously, Rossi. Set it up. We've got leads here on the missing kid; shouldn't take us more than another day or two. Set…it…up…"

Dave knew exactly how his colleague felt. But he also knew if Morgan had his way, his career would never be the same. At best, he'd be demoted and forgotten in some position that would render him bitter as time passed. At worst, he'd be incarcerated right along with the unsubs who'd make his life a living hell when they found out he was a former FBI agent.

"Sorry, Derek. We'll have to think of something else." Rossi's sigh was resigned. "You guys stay focused…I'll worry about Hotch enough for all of us."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis was restless.

He didn't like having to change plans.

Originally, he'd intended to call Hotch after the box from Welchel's had been delivered. He'd looked forward to hearing the emotion in the agent's voice that would tell him he'd hit a bullseye.

But it had taken a lot more work to get the delivery to happen the way he wanted. Because of that, he was more wary about using the phone.

Yet, the urge to dial Agent Hotchner's number was gnawing at him. He knew as soon as he did, his cell would be turned inside out…torn up, down, and sideways as the guards searched for the phone they'd know he must have.

_If I could be sure they wouldn't find it, it'd be worth it._ _C'mon, Peter, you're smarter than all of them. You can figure out a way. And just think of the prize if you do! Sad, little Aaron Hotchner will be a quivering mess._

Lewis hugged himself with glee.

When the swell of happy anticipation ebbed, he began to look around his cell.

The walls were institutional beige, but where damage had been done, a basic white spackle had been applied to fill the larger cracks. Small ones were left untreated, like the one he'd enlarged with such care to serve as a hiding place for his phone.

_If I could spackle over that crack with the phone inside, they'd never find it. But I'd need to be able to access it repeatedly. That won't work with real spackle, even if I could find a way to procure some._

The unsub stared at the little fissure where his phone, the key to all his plans and fun, was secreted. His eyes strayed to the small basin that served as a sink…the few toiletries they were allowed…

…and a grin that would have sent a shiver up the night guard's spine…_Creep-boy!_... spread across Lewis's mealy-complexion.

_Toothpaste. White toothpaste. They'll never know…_


	51. A Lovely Day in the Neighborhood

Gaunt and hollow-eyed, Hotch was up before Rossi the next morning.

He wandered through the apartment, disconsolate; looking for something, but not knowing what._ Myself. That's what. The person I was before Lewis re-made me._

Eventually, when he settled in his study, that train of thought began to disgust him. _That's not me. That's an unsub telling me what to think, how to feel. I have to pull out of that._

He got as comfortable as his shoulder would allow in a huge, overstuffed wingchair, closed his eyes, and tried once more to review the horrors of his life. Chief among them was his ex-wife's death. _But that's already been accounted for, right? Because it happened over the phone. And I __**can**__ answer the phone now._ He chose not to acknowledge the rise in heart rate and respiration that happened whenever the thing rang.

_And seeing Reid shot, and being afraid of how much dying can hurt, of its inherent pain…that's already been covered. And…and…_ He swallowed sudden bile. _…and how it was growing up under Dad's hand…. So, what else?_

"Aaron, stop." Rossi's soft command from the doorway startled the younger man. "You can't see it. That's part of the deception and treachery that Lewis built into it. Just stop."

Dark eyes that were too strained, too large turned to Dave, pleading in their depths. "Maybe…maybe if you talked to me about some of the things that have happened? Maybe you'll hit on it?"

Rossi took a moment. Looking away, biting his bottom lip, he took a deep, steadying breath. "All that will do is make us both miserable. It's too hit-or-miss. And there might not be anything more to find, Aaron. We have to consider that, too."

Hotch leaned over, shielding his eyes with his good hand. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Rossi moved to his friend's side. "Heal. Take time. I think you're panicking a little because you can't control this. That's making it feel worse." He could see his words were cold comfort. _And comfort's what he needs most right now. So a little lie won't hurt._

"Look at me Aaron." Dave lifted the man's chin, forcing eye contact. "The more time that passes, the weaker the triggers will grow. Every day you'll be a little bit farther back in control. So let yourself heal and trust in the passage of time to knit up all your injuries…emotional as well as physical." He managed a creditable smile. "It'll be okay. If you don't know that…I do."

Hotch searched the older man's eyes, wanting to believe…and maybe knowing it was a well-intentioned fib. He nodded. "Okay. Okay."

"Now, let's get some breakfast and get through the day. Maybe even find something to enjoy in it."

XXXXXXXXXX

Lewis did a test run.

He secreted his phone in the little fissure he'd hollowed out even a little more, making it deeper. Then, he daubed toothpaste over the opening, smoothing it with his index finger until it was flush with the surrounding wall. To his knowledgeable, seeking eyes, it seemed obvious. But when he retreated to the other side of the cell and turned, scanning the space as a whole…it was brilliantly hidden.

He waited a few hours, watching the paste dry. Tiny less-than-hairline cracks appeared, but they wouldn't draw anyone's attention unless the observer was looking for exactly that.

_And who will ever be expecting toothpaste on a wall?_ The unsub's grin grew to Creep-boy proportions.

For the second stage of his experiment, he used the handle end of his toothbrush to poke through the dried paste. Some of it remained, making the second time he covered the opening even easier. Lewis's heart did a happy, little skip.

_Who knew imprisonment could be so much fun?_ Peter rubbed crumbled bits of paste from the casing of his phone with his thumb, giving a self-satisfied nod. _It's the challenge of it. I always did like a challenge. _

_Now, let's see if my errand-girl wants to make some more money…a little __**scratch**__…_

His high-pitched giggle at the beloved term lilted through the corridors.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"How come you're not at work, Dave?"

"The team's fine without me."

"You mean they knew I needed a babysitter.

"No…" Rossi gave Hotch a reprimanding look. "…they knew you needed a friend. And I won the coin toss."

Despite the grim, uncertain turn his life had taken, the Unit Chief's lips quirked upward at the corners. Not quite a smile. More like a tribute to one.

"I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know?"

The older man nodded, perusing the daily paper. "I think the waiting is what it's all about. That's the really cruel part of what Lewis did to you." He looked up from under his brows. "Don't give him the satisfaction. Here…" Deft fingers separated out a section of the news. "…read the sports section."

Aaron took the paper along with a deep breath. Sitting across from Dave at his kitchen table, lingering over the news and cups of coffee, he could almost make himself believe it was just another, normal, unremarkable, unthreatening day.

Rossi had decided 'business as usual' would be the best course to pursue in order to calm Hotch down. Dave though it was like a gentler, less focused version of desensitization. _Reid made him behave normally and every time he behaved normally, like answering his phone…he was rewarded by nothing bad happening. He got stronger, more confident. Living a normal day is the best I can give him right now._

To that end, Rossi had helped Hotch dress, wincing in sympathy every time the man's shoulder was bumped or stressed. They'd had a nice, normal late breakfast. And now they were spending some nice, normal time with the afternoon newspaper. Later, Dave hoped for a nice, normal walk around the neighborhood; a nice, normal dinner; and a nice, normal evening of TV and companionable chat.

It was working, too. After a bit of muttering and grumbling, Hotch was actually immersed in sports scores.

When someone buzzed for admittance, each man's eyes shot to the other's…and locked.

Rossi saw the hesitancy in Hotch. He couldn't blame the man since the last visitor left a box of crazy for him. _But use this the way Reid used phone calls. He'll see there's nothing to be afraid of. And that reminds me: I have to touch bases with Garcia…see if she found anything out about __**who**__ ordered that box of crazy._

"It's alright, Aaron. Answer the door. I'm right here. Everything'll be alright."

Hotch gave a single nod as he rose, but Dave could see this was costing him. _He's a rational man. He knows the fear inside him is baseless. This is the right way to go._

He watched Hotch go to the door, check through the peephole and…go shock-white. Rossi was on his feet and bounding to his friend's side in a flash.

Pushing Aaron aside, he looked through the tiny lens and saw a FedEx uniform holding a large cardboard box and looking a little impatient when he glanced at his watch and then stared pointedly at the eye he knew was observing him.

Rossi opened the door, looking none too friendly. "Yes?"

"You Aaron Hotchner?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is for you, express delivery. Sign here, please."

Dave took the stylus and signed the electronic pad. "Who's it from?"

"Uh…" The uniform made a show of reading the label on the box, a not-so-subtle way of telling Rossi he could figure it out himself. "Says Toys-R-Us."

"Right. I see that." The agent's voice had an edge. "Anything else you can tell me about it?"

FedEx guy shrugged. "I picked it up and was told it had to be here by four o'clock. That's all I know, man. Have a good one." He turned on his heel and strode down the hall toward the building's exit.

Rossi stared at the box the uniform had handed off to him.

He shook it. Something inside shifted and rustled. Rattled, even.

He stepped back and closed the door, turning to see Hotch, still pale, eyes fixed and dilated on the cardboard carton with the jolly logo emblazoned across it.

"I take it you didn't order anything for Jack?" The Unit Chief shook his head. Rossi nodded.

"Okay. Now, listen carefully, Aaron. I want you to go to your room and close the door. I'll take care of this. If it's a trigger item, Reid says it won't be as, uh, _aggressive_ a reaction as that first one. So we can deal with it." He stepped closer, manually pushing Hotch's good shoulder until the man realized he was supposed to turn around and leave.

The look of pure misery he gave Dave before heading for his bedroom made the older man's heart ache. _Whatever's in here, I will __**not**__ let it beat you, Aaron! _

Rossi heard the quiet snick of a door latching. He waited a moment to be sure.

Then, with savage fury, he tore into the box.


	52. Renewing Old Acquaintance

"Bastard…Damn bastard…"

Rossi muttered to himself as he stared down into the depths of the Toys-R-Us box. After a moment he dug both hands into the contents, sifting through them to check if anything else was buried beneath what looked like a hundred water pistols. Each one designed to look like a realistic Glock19, current standard FBI issue. A few smaller versions were mixed in. Rossi identified them as replicas of the Glock26…Hotch's ankle gun.

In all the furor over colors and candies and injuries, they'd neglected to pursue the odd inhibition the Unit Chief had displayed for touching his firearm. Actually, the only one to see the aversion had been Rossi. _And I didn't follow up on it. God __**damn**__ it! I bet this is a tactile trigger. He can't touch his gun._

Dave stared at the 'toys' and felt lava-strength anger boiling up inside him.

He decided it would be best to talk to Hotch in a calmer state. But he had no qualms at all about venting his rage on whoever was in charge at the Garrett County jail.

There could be no doubt now that this was the work of Peter Lewis. _If not at his hand, then at the hand of a minion. But these acts of a very private, focused kind of terrorism are absolutely his brain-children._

He pulled out his phone and had a surreal moment when he heard a ringtone sound from the direction of Hotch's room. In that moment, he hesitated, hearing the rumbling baritone of the Unit Chief, sounding hesitant, as he answered the call…

…and somehow, Rossi just knew…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch went to his room like a good boy.

Like a boy who'd done something wrong and was now excluded from general activity. _Take some time and __**think**__ about what you've done, young man!..._

But he hadn't done anything wrong. _Except let an unsub get into my head and set up a permanent installation there. Except become a liability to my team. Except come out looking like a neurosis-riddled coward who needed remedial training just to answer his phone…_

Hotch heard noises and knew Rossi was ripping into whatever had been delivered. After the flurry of tearing…silence. _This is all because of me. Dave should be out working to catch sickos, not babysitting one._

When his phone clamored for attention, the Unit Chief was aware of the stutter in his heartbeat, of the catch in his breath. It thoroughly disgusted him. _Coward. Answer your phone, coward-with-a-capital-C…_ In spite of his self-castigation, Hotch took a wary look at the incoming caller ID. It was unknown. His pulse bumped up a notch. _Check the area code. You know the drill, capital-C-Coward._

Rossi had looked up the area codes for Garrett County, Maryland. The calls he'd received from the jail had used 240, but just to be sure, he'd checked to see if any other codes might apply to the region. There was only one: 301. Hotch read the display. Area code 202. He knew that one. He'd seen it often enough at the office as he fielded requests and complaints and political machinations. 202 was Washington DC.

_No problem. Probably something budgetary._

He thumbed a button to answer. "Hotchner here."

A pause. Then…

"Hello, Aaron. Hell_o_, hell_o_, hell_o_…It's _me_. Remember? _Me_…" The sibilant, hissing sing-song cadence was straight out of Hotch's nightmares. Direct from hell. Do not pass Go; do not collect any sanity chips…

Hotch felt himself split.

He had the odd sensation of hovering, looking down at the man sitting on the bed. With a clinical sort of interest he watched the man's face drain to a clammy bone-white. He took mild interest as he saw the phone slip from the man's nerveless fingers and clatter to the floor. He almost smiled when the bedroom door flew open, slamming back against the wall as Rossi stormed in, livid with rage. His eyes began to feel heavy as he watched Dave make a snap assessment of the situation and with mystifying accuracy, come to the correct conclusion.

He vaguely wondered what Dave was saying when he picked up the phone and began snarling into it, saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth in his anger. He also gave a brief thought as to how the man on the bed could do such a strangely graceful, boneless spill to the floor encumbered, with one arm in a sling.

But by then Hotch didn't care too much about how things turned out. He was only mildly curious as sound dimmed and vision browned.

After all, it was just a muffled shadow-play.

_Nothing to do…with…meeeee…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis huddled over his phone with barely contained glee.

He curled his body around it in a corner of his bunk, gibbering and giggling.

He'd known he'd have to keep the call short. Not because anyone would be trying to trace it. Not this first time, anyway. Rather, because they'd know who it was. Someone on Hotchner's end would alert the jail administration and there would be an immediate search of him and his cell.

_Let them. Let them! They're no match for meeee!_

He cut the connection, made sure the phone was turned off…_Anyone else would forget a detail like that! Anyone else would be caught when they found the last number that had called Agent Hotchner and called it!_ His hilarity burst forth, ringing out in maniacal cadence, as he imagined a lesser intellect making such an error.

He envisioned the guards tearing everything apart and finding nothing. Then, sweating and frustrated, they would hear a ringtone emanating from inside the wall. Lewis's fit of laughter continued as he rolled from his bunk and, with practiced efficiency, plastered his little phone behind a lump of toothpaste.

He smoothed the patch to perfection and retired to his bed to wait for the inevitable search.

The time passed pleasantly.

He spent it imagining what had happened to sad, little Aaron when he'd heard that noise that must have been the phone hitting the floor.

_Don't despair, sad, little Aaron. I'll…be…back…They…can't…stop…meeeeee!_


	53. The First Time

He felt so tired, he didn't want to open his eyes.

And sore. He was sore, but he couldn't remember why. He tried to burrow back under the fleecy grey that was filling the corners of his mind. _Nice there. Don't have to think._

But a voice was beginning to resolve out of the humming white noise upon which he floated. And something was touching him…his forehead…something cool and damp. _Feels good.._. The voice was low and gentle and soothing and kind…so maybe it was okay to come out from under the fleece. Maybe it was okay to go back to where people were mean and bad things happened and it was scary and cold and nothing made any sense unless you believed in all the bad, mean things, and you studied them.

Still, though…the voice was sad and compassionate. It would be wrong to disappoint it, so…

"Aaron…Aaron…Come on, Aaron. Open your eyes. You can do it…Come on…"

The blurry mass hovering over him like a harvest moon was sharpening, coming into focus now…becoming a face…

"There you go. That's my boy…"

A hand pressed the cool compress against his forehead. He looked into warm, worried eyes mere inches away from his own.

"Dave."

He was rewarded with a relieved smile. "Take it easy, Aaron. You had me worried there for a minute."

Then it all came rushing back. Hotch winced, looking for the fleecy grey. Too late. It was gone. _…I went to the fleece to hide my face, and the fleece cried out 'No hiding place!'…_It vanished to the paraphrase of a childhood rhyme that lilted through his brain in a voice of malevolent glee.

Then the other voice came forward. Flashes of images like stop-action stills paraded through the Unit Chief's brain. He closed his eyes, a vertical line creasing the smooth skin between his brows. When he looked at Rossi again, he tried hard to speak without a quaver running through his words. He failed.

"It was him. It was Lewis. How…? …Dave, it was _him_!"

"I know, I know." The older man held the compress against his friend's brow with one hand; with the other, he stroked sweat-dampened hair back into a semblance of order. "He has a phone, so now we know where all the other stuff…the deliveries…originated. I tore Garrett County jail a new one when I thought they were allowing Lewis to call out without monitoring him. They weren't. So then I tore them another one about letting him smuggle a phone through security. They're tearing his cell apart as we speak. They'll take it away and then…" Rossi heaved a sigh, releasing tension. "…and then it'll be over."

Hotch's troubled eyes regarded him with a deep wariness. "What was in the box? He made sure it was delivered by a certain hour, and he called when he was sure it had been. What was in it?"

"Toy guns. Water pistols. Look like Glocks."

Aaron searched Rossi's features, trying to tell if he might be holding anything back. "Another trigger?"

"Must be. I think it was…" Dave stopped, giving Hotch a narrow, calculating look. "Why don't you tell me? Seems to be the way these things are disarmed is for you to recognize them." He sat back, chin raised. "Give it a shot. Talk to me about guns and something powerful that unsub might have dug out of you."

Still waxy-complexioned, the Unit Chief went even more wan. Rossi nodded. "So you _do_ remember something now that you've been told a trigger was formed from it?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Just say it, Aaron. Say it and get free of it."

Hotch did a fair imitation of Reid chewing on his bottom lip in a show of quiet anxiety. At last, he dragged himself upright, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. It was a position that made it easier to avoid eye contact. He could study his own feet and hope that Rossi didn't catch on.

Dave crossed his arms, shaking his head. _When is he going to realize no one judges him as harshly as he does himself? _With a resigned sigh, the older man waited.

"I've never really talked about it…well, not since it happened…" Hotch glanced up, then down…checking on his audience. "When it happened, I had to talk to the department psychologist. It was standard procedure…" He risked another cautious peek at Rossi.

"Aaron, are you referring to the first time you had to shoot someone? When you were a rookie?"

Head hanging, the younger agent's voice was somber. "I didn't shoot anyone 'til I was in SWAT. And then, it wasn't just a shooting. I killed him." He went silent, looking as though he were in a confessional, waiting for penance to be pronounced.

Rossi leaned close, bracing elbows on knees. He studied the downcast eyes for a moment. "Everyone has a hard time with killing on the job. Especially the first time. And you've done it since then. You've had to. To save others…to save yourself. The first time is something you never forget."

"Do you remember yours?" The baritone almost trembled. This wasn't easy to talk about even now, years down the road.

"Of course I remember." Dave's voice dropped. Unless you were a sociopath, taking a human life would always be a subject that commanded respect. He imagined for Hotch it bordered on reverence. "It was in Viet Nam. I was a soldier. That's the job. Just like in SWAT, you do what you have to do."

"The difference is, you were surrounded by guys who were just as ready to shoot. I wasn't."

Rossi frowned. "Tell me. Everything."

Hotch swallowed. "It was a hostage situation in a school. He'd let the kids out, but he had a teacher and a principal. Resisted all the negotiations. Said he was going to kill everyone and then himself. He was waiting, 'cause it was his moment in the spotlight. Wanted to make a headline and be the lead-in on local news." He paused.

"Go on." Barely whispered, but it was enough to nudge Hotch forward.

"I was a rookie, but everyone had seen me on the range…showing off…" Eyes welling with pain looked up at Rossi. "I liked the praise. It was like a game that I was really good at."

"Okay, so you were good…and?"

"Cap decided our only chance to save the hostages was a sniper move through a window. It was a long shot. He knew we'd only have one chance. He looked at each of us. You could see the wheels turning in his mind… 'Shafer's good in the rain…Lee's the best at altitude…' He sorted through the whole team and his eyes stopped on me."

Hotch licked dry lips. "He said 'You're up, kid. Make it count.' I set up the way we'd been taught. I sighted. I thought my heart was gonna slam its way out of my chest." He grimaced. "I had to compensate for the way it was pounding and making my whole upper body feel like it was bouncing."

He took a deep, steadying breath. "I laid there forever. Everyone thought I was making sure of my aim, but I wasn't. I was thinking 'If I do this, my life changes forever. I'm a killer. A sanctioned killer.' When I squeezed off a round, it was a perfect shot. I saw the glass break. I saw the entry point before he fell. And then…" Hotch's eyes glazed.

"And then…" Rossi prompted.

"And then everyone was cheering and high-fiving and slapping my back and smiling. And I didn't say anything. But inside I was thinking that now I was different. And he was dead. And in a way, the man I'd been was dead, too. Different. A killer."

"You saved those people, Aaron. Two lives were saved."

Hotch nodded. "Yeah. Two were saved. One was lost. And one was…changed."

"Did you say all this to the counselor they made you see?"

"Not all of it." The Unit Chief glanced up again, looking impossibly young. "Some of it was too…personal…you know? Besides…I don't talk very much. You know that."

"Sure. Sure." Dave let Hotch breathe for a moment. _It's been festering inside him all these years. Just waiting for someone like Lewis to dig it out and serve it up on a platter._ "You can tell me anything, Aaron. Anything." He could hear the strain in the other man's words when he continued.

"I…I had this visual that…that described how it felt. Um, it was…it was like a whiteness that was a clean slate, I guess. And…and when I pulled the trigger and that hole appeared in his forehead…a black pock appeared on the slate. Black and grainy like charcoal. And it went all the way through."

Rossi's Catholic background clued him in. "So you felt like a black, ugly, permanent mark was on your soul because of that?"

Hotch nodded.

"Aaron, I don't know how the scorecard is kept, or how the scales weigh things in a man's life. All I know is what you felt…_still_ feel…is what a man with a fine conscience and a sense of humanity _should_ feel."

Hotch stayed silent, contemplating his feet. Rossi reached out and touched his friend's hand. "Do you remember his name?"

"Macy Killian."

"How old was he?"

"Forty two."

"Tell me about him, Aaron. Tell me…everything."

For the rest of the evening, and much of the night, Rossi listened to the story of Macy Killian. And how he'd changed the life of a very young, very vulnerable Aaron Hotchner.

And with each word, Dave's hate for Peter Lewis increased.


	54. Genius vs Genius, Part II

When the talking was done and Hotch had cleaned out another murky corner of his past, it was late.

He didn't feel good. Having unburdened himself, having relived an experience that still haunted him, he felt worn and jaded.

_This is what getting older is. You gather all these events along the way. They stick to you and suck out your energy. In the end, you can't move because you're encumbered by everything you've done…or that's been done to you. You wind up a husk..._ He grimaced. _…if you're lucky, that is…if an unsub doesn't get you first._

_Hell of a thing to consider 'luck.'_

XXXXXXXXXXX

The next day Rossi was on his phone more than usual.

He checked with Garcia regarding any leads concerning the deliveries that had been made to Hotch's apartment. He knew Lewis had started the ball rolling on both, but there had to be an outside contact. If an accomplice existed, Rossi wanted him or her found. Reid's assertion that Lewis wouldn't deign to sully himself by working with another person, kept echoing in Dave's mind, but _someone_ was complicit.

Penelope had attacked the project with vigor. No one tortured her Fearless Leader and got away with it. Armed with Peter Lewis's phone number and the names of a candy and a toy company, she had applied her considerable talents to retracing the unsub's steps. To say she was frustrated when she hit a dead end was an understatement.

Dave could hear the snap and rattle of her bracelets-du-jour as she related her findings, or lack thereof, with expressive gestures that would have made any Italian papa proud.

"Nada, my Noble Roman Warhorse! _Nada_! I…I can't find any record of either company receiving a call from that Minion of Evil. And the purchases were made in cash, which at first I thought was a good thing, 'cause, you know, _nobody_ does that anymore!...and I thought it would, like, stand out…and it _did_, but all the sales people could remember was a woman who looked in her 20s and handed over a piece of paper with delivery instructions…which they threw away after they didn't need it anymore…so…so…"

"So what you're saying, Kitten, is that we got bupkis."

Garcia caught her breath. "What I'm saying is, I need the phone. Then I could do more. Right now, all I can tell you is he called Hotch. But…" Her voice grew small and sad. "…you already know that."

Rossi hung up, looking forward to venting at the Garrett County jail personnel who'd called him and declared in no uncertain terms that prisoner #7962 _did not have a phone_! The subtext being, 'We are _not_ the imbeciles you take us for…so SHOVE IT!'

He contacted the jail yet again.

"Is it possible Lewis had the _temporary_ use of a phone? A sympathetic guard perhaps?" The subtext being, 'Do you have a guy on staff who's stupid enough and greedy enough to be bought?'

"Agent Rossi, we are aware of the situation. We've checked our personnel. If you'd like to talk to any of them, please feel free."

Dave had gritted his teeth and backed off a few paces. He didn't want to alienate people he might need. Still… "How about you provide our tech analyst with all of their phone numbers? Just cells they carry at work. Can do?"

A weighty sigh preceded the reply. "Fine. Give me her contact info. I'll shoot them over to her."

Rossi did so, but not with any great expectations. He knew full well that any staff member who'd loaned a phone to an inmate wouldn't volunteer the information. Unless it was already on record with jail administration, they were barking up a useless tree. But it would give Garcia more to work with and you never knew where her savant-like computer skills would take things.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than his phone clamored for attention, an excited Penelope chattering as soon as he picked up.

"Rossi! Rossi! Rat-Soul Lewis had to pay for that stuff somehow, so I checked his bank accounts, and, sure enough!, he made withdrawals on the day of each delivery. But! But!..." Garcia continued at breathless, breakneck speed. "…he didn't send the money to either vendor! He sent it to a account for one Emily Stanhope. And…address and info is on its way to you…NOW!"

Dave heard the staccato clicking of a keyboard, followed by a pregnant pause as the techie waited for her reward…for the thing that motivated her far more than her salary: praise for a job well done, for going above and beyond expectations.

"Garcia…you are a godsend. Thank you…"

Penelope gave a gratified, little squeak before closing the connection.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jerry Swanson, high-powered attorney wannabe, was beginning to think he'd been had.

His client, a serial killer trailing the potential impact and gory details that were worthy of a true-crime bestseller, or at the very least a made-for-TV movie-of-the-week…maybe even a mini-series!...was showing no interest at all in laying a foundation for a splashy insanity defense with all the bells and whistles.

In fact, Mr. Lewis looked downright bored, yawning and glancing at the large wall clock in the Garrett County jail interrogation room where prisoners were allowed to confer with their legal representation. When his client engaged in a long, loud, joint-popping, full-body stretch accompanied by his fourth yawn, Jerry had had enough.

"May I remind you that we have a deal on the table, _Peter_?" The attorney glanced over his shoulder, assuring himself of privacy. Nonetheless, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now, it's your turn, if you want to keep that phone. Got it?"

Lewis's lips stretched in a grin that managed to combine pity and contempt. "Yes, Jerry-baby. I got it. And I've been using it. And as far as I'm concerned, my part of our deal comes when I'm on the stand. We both know I _could_ handle my own defense. Probably better than 99 percent of law school grads today. But that wouldn't be fair, would it? I mean…" He leaned in close enough for Swanson to catch a whiff of the onions that had figured prominently in the cafeteria at lunch. "…_I_ did all the hard work. _I_ planted all the cute, little quirks that made blood flow…" His giggle made Swanson's stomach clench. "…and as much fun as it was…_still_ is, thanks to my pet phone…you're still going to have to earn your notoriety. Oh!..." He placed fingers over his lips for a moment, brows raised at his faux error. "…I mean…_fame_. Your _fame_."

Lewis narrowed his eyes at his lawyer. "Of course, I _could_ turn your fame into notoriety like mine any time I want."

His voice dropped to a whisper even fainter than the one Swanson had used. The attorney had to lean close to hear, holding his breath against the onion-y stench wafting its warm way toward him.

"I _could_ tell them you smuggled that phone in. You know, they went crazy just a little while ago. Strip-searched me…tore my cell apart… When they didn't find anything, they were maaa-aaaad!" He leaned back, an insolent smile making his legal counsel's complexion redden. "Imagine how they'd react if they knew who gave it to me. Why…I bet they'd put you right in here _with_ me. We could be cellmates!"

Lewis winked. "I might even let you use my phone if you played your cards right…_Jerry_."

The lawyer felt his chest constricting. "You promised! We had a deal!"

All expression drained from Peter's face. The visage Swanson saw was the true unsub version. Mirthless. Amoral. Inhuman.

By the time their session was over, Jerry Swanson, high-powered attorney wannabe, had lowered his ambitions considerably.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Morgan called Rossi to say their case had come to a successful end and the team was headed home, the older agent filled the others in on his progress.

He didn't mention Hotch's very private tale of the first time he'd taken a human life. That wasn't Dave's story. He felt privileged to have heard it, but it wasn't his to share.

After a lengthy update, Rossi ended on a hopeful note. "At least we have this Emily Stanhope as a lead. I had her brought in, but haven't wanted to leave Hotch alone to go interview her. Having her cool her heels overnight might make her more amenable to sharing…you know?"

"I still don't think Lewis would work with anyone," Reid spoke up, sounding thoughtful. "She's probably just an errand girl who doesn't know anything, but…"

"But it's a _lead_, Pretty Boy!" Morgan was chafing to get home and get involved on Hotch's behalf. "It's better than nothing!" He turned his attention back to the speaker phone. "And the search of Lewis's cell didn't turn up _any_thing? _Any_thing?!"

Rossi's reply was prefaced by a gut-deep sigh. "Nada, as Garcia would say. Strip search…the whole nine yards. Nada."

A few beats of silence fell.

After a moment, Reid broke it. "Rossi, can you get them to do something? At the jail? It'd tell us a lot…maybe…I think, anyway…"

"Just say it, Spence." J.J.'s soft encouragement made the young genius lean close to the speaker, eager to lay out his plan.

"Rossi, call them and have them take Lewis out. Do another strip search…and…uh…a cavity search, too…just to be sure. And then bring him to a different cell. Tell him it's his new home. New bedding. New toiletries. Nothing from the old cell. Nothing."

Another silence. Slowly, each agent realized what Reid hoped to accomplish.

"If he freaks out, we'll know the phone's somewhere in his cell," Spencer continued. "If he doesn't, we'll know someone's giving him access and it doesn't matter where they put him."

Rossi's grin grew to painful proportions. "Spencer Reid…I think I love you…"

For the first time in days, a current of joyful hope ran through the ranks of the BAU.


	55. No Sleep For the Wicked

When the jet landed, Morgan sent the others home for some much-deserved rest with the understanding that he'd take point on keeping everyone abreast of any new developments concerning Peter Lewis.

Derek watched the others drop off paperwork they'd been doing on the flight home and then scatter, going their separate ways. There was no sleep in him; only the overwhelming desire to _do_ something about Hotch's situation. Aside from hating the thought of a good man being brought low by the likes of Lewis, Morgan's fierce protectiveness when it came to his teammates, particularly his leader, wouldn't let him rest.

He needed to see Emily Stanhope and the middle of the night was as good a time as any.

_It'll throw her off her guard. Unsettle her. Make her more open to confessing and giving up her partner. We already know Lewis is at the bottom of it all, but she deserves to sweat for her part in it._

After a quick caffeine pick-me-up, he set off for where Ms. Stanhope was being held. She hadn't been charged with anything yet, and the optional 72-hour holding period was ticking away.

Morgan felt there was no time to lose.

She was not at all what he'd expected.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Emily Stanhope was as sleepless as the FBI agent who barged into her holding cell, seething with suppressed rage.

It was too much. None of it made any sense to her. She didn't have anyone to call for help. She didn't think she'd done anything wrong. She was wracking her brain trying to figure out why she'd been snatched from her humble, studio apartment and incarcerated.

She'd been told she could be kept for 72 hours, and someone would be in to interrogate her.

That was nearly 18 hours ago. No one had shown up to talk to her. She'd been given meals and the right to make a phone call. But there was no one to call; no one to care about 21-year-old Emily Stanhope. No one would miss her until her rent was due or her utilities went unpaid.

She waited.

And when Morgan cam slamming in…it was too much.

Emily bent her head and gave in to quiet, hopeless tears. Utterly silent as she expressed her grief for a life that went wrong no matter how hard she tried.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Derek was spoiling for a fight.

He rounded the corner to the holding cell a step behind the guard who admitted him. But when he saw a woman who looked more like a frail, little girl than anything else, wearing a cream-colored dress sporting delicate, pink roses and lace trim…his anger faltered…

…and then faded.

He tried to get it back. Frowning down at the silently weeping woman, Morgan growled at her. "Emily Stanhope?" A nod. A sniffle. More tears. "You realize your boyfriend is a serial killer?"

"B-Boyfriend?" A winsome face peered up at this hulking presence who was standing uncomfortably close. "I…I don't have a b-boyfriend." Her face crumpled, making no attempt to appear brave. "I…I don't have anyone…It's just meeeeee…" It was the softest, most heartbreaking wail Morgan thought he'd ever heard.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi knew he was reaching the limit when it came to the cooperation he could expect from the Garrett County jail administration. But Reid's logic was so sound, and he was so hopeful of its outcome, the senior FBI agent pushed for all he was worth.

"We already did a strip search! The guy's got nuthin'!"

"Please. I know this is extra work for you, and not of the most pleasant kind…"

"Got _that_ right, buddy! Guy's a creep! Something so off about that dude.."

"I know…I know…" Rossi decided to fuel his request with a peek into Hotch's world. "This'll be the last time I bother you for this. The prisoner's been torturing one of our agents. Calling him. Threatening him." Sorrow infused Dave's voice. "We even had to separate him from his son just to be on the safe side. I mean, can you see a guy who creeps _you_ out getting in touch with a little kid? So…"

"Your guy's a dad?"

"A good one. The best." Rossi paused, sensing he'd hit a heartstring. His own did a happy, little skip when he realized he had.

"Damn. Stuff we deal with isn't supposed to spill out of here. And when it spills out on a _kid_…" Dave held his breath, letting the man at the county jail mull over the horrors from which children should be shielded. At last, a rough sigh came back at him. "Alright. One more time. Strip search."

"_Full_ strip search…know what I mean?" Rossi pressed his advantage. "And all new gear…and a new cell. We don't want him bringing anything with him."

"Wow. You don't ask for much, do you, agent?" But there was enough humor running through the man's words to let Rossi know his requests would be honored.

If not for the sake of helping the FBI, then for the sake of a son separated from his father.

XXXXXXXXXXX

It took Morgan a few hours before he considered himself done with Emily Stanhope.

Not because he subjected her to an in-depth interrogation. Not because he thought she needed to be impressed with the gravity of her situation.

But because it took that long to understand she wasn't faking. She was a naïve dupe who had no idea she was skirting the fringes of the demi-monde.

When he looked at the woman in her pastel, dainty dress that would have suited Easter services at church, but looked oddly surreal in a holding cell, words like 'feckless,' 'hapless,' and 'clueless' came to mind. Derek decided Ms. Stanhope was a lot of things that included 'less' in them.

He released her after obtaining her passwords to any accounts that had been touched by Peter Lewis, as well as her promise to contact him immediately if the unsub tried to get in touch with her again.

Morgan rejected her vow to cut Lewis off completely. If he were deprived of his errand girl, there were plenty of others willing to put in some legwork in exchange for a few dollars. They'd be right back to square one. At least now, they'd have a heads-up if Lewis continued his Hotch-baiting ways.

Morgan wouldn't have been so concerned about securing Emily's passwords and promise, if he'd known what was transpiring at that late hour down at the Garrett County jail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis drifted off to sleep with a smug smirk on his Creep-boy face.

When he was rousted out of his bunk a few hours later by two burly guards, he was irritated.

When they announced he'd be subjected to another…more thorough…strip search, he was disgusted. _Idiots can't accept their own failure. Fine. Let them wear themselves out. I'm better than this…_ He'd kept repeating his belief in his superiority even as he gritted his teeth during the full cavity search.

When they handed him a new set of clothing and toiletries, he was mildly puzzled.

When they led him to a cell in a different wing, telling him he'd been transferred and wouldn't be returning to his former digs…

…Peter Lewis went white with shocked realization. He…he who loomed head and shoulders above all others when it came to intellect…had made two grievous errors in judgment.

One: that he would always be in the same cell.

Two: that he no longer needed the willing cooperation of his attorney, Jerry Swanson.

Peter Lewis didn't drift off to sleep at all for the rest of that night. He lay awake thinking of his phone, languishing behind its perfect toothpaste disguise. Gone. Unreachable. And he'd been looking forward to so much more when it came to sad, little Aaron Hotchner.

But Peter wasn't a quitter. He determined to try to get that dolt of a lawyer to bring him another phone. And if that didn't work…

…there was still a way to have fun with his sad, little pet FBI agent.


	56. Decision

Hotch was retreating.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

Rossi watched it happening and mourned for his best friend. He sat across from Aaron and watched him poke at his food. After it became obvious the Unit Chief was hoping some sort of evaporation process would make his pasta salad disappear on its own, Dave gave his foot a nudge under the table.

"Hey. That's my mother's recipe. Show some respect."

Hotch froze, head lowered over his plate, dark eyes fixing on Rossi from beneath his brows. He wasn't sure if this was intended as humor. Any other time he would have shot a verbal volley back at the older man, but Hotch wasn't sure of much anymore.

Except that he couldn't trust his own reactions.

Dave read the uncertainty in every line of Aaron's body, every plane of his face. His own features saddened. "I wish I could make you believe that everything will be alright."

"I wish you could, too." Hotch's eyes dropped back to the mess he'd made of his lunch. He set his fork down, crossing it against the rim of the plate…ever the perfectly bred gentleman with the perfectly correct manners. It was the etiquette of someone who'd been taught how to signal a servant or a waiter that he was done with his meal.

Rossi bit his lip and sighed. _So controlled. So part and parcel of who he is. That's why knowing someone else got inside him and took his control away, exerted their own, is tearing him apart. Even if we move on and there are no more triggers that come to light, I doubt he'll ever feel completely himself again. _ "What are you going to do if Reid was right and Lewis has been separated from his phone…and can't set off any more triggers? Huh? What are you gonna do?"

"Feel like a time bomb and steer clear of situations and people I might affect badly."

"Even if the chance of having a bad, uh, _reaction_ to something is as slim as getting struck by lightning?"

Hotch stared, but had a distant look. Dave could tell he was tracking images in his mind's eye. "What if I'm in the field? What if I'm on the phone doing a consult? What if…what if I'm with…with J-Jack?"

" 'What if' is a lousy game to play, Aaron. What if there _aren't_ any more triggers? You gonna cut yourself off from everyone and everything? Become an urban hermit and go into permanent hiding?" Rossi leaned closer, voice going gentle. "You gonna leave Jack fatherless? You can't do that."

"I know. I know."

The acknowledgment was what Dave had wanted to hear. He felt it gave him permission to push a little more. "Then you have no choice. You have to trust yourself…and us. You have to know we'll see if something begins to go wrong and we'll help you past it. You have to…"

"NO!" Hotch gritted the word out with more force than volume. "No. That's exactly what I _don't_ want. Everyone keeping an eye on me…second-guessing me…splitting their focus…. It would disable the team. _I_ would disable the team."

Rossi shook his head. "That's the only way out of this. And it won't be forever. Once you realize you can get through a case or a meeting or a father-son outing without…"

"It's _not_ the only way out." Hotch's words were soft, but there was…something…in them that arrested Dave mid-speech. And made his chest tighten. "It's _not_ the only way."

Rossi turned his head, regarding the Unit Chief out of the corner of his eye. A sick suspicion was beginning to surface. He hoped he was wrong… "What other way is there?"

Hotch tried to take a deep breath, but he was too tense. All he could do was sip small puffs into his lungs. "Put me in with Lewis again. He won't be able to resist setting me off. If there's anything more…you know…_in_ me…" He ducked his head, ashamed of admitting his lack of self-knowledge.

Dave had begun shaking his own head at the mention of Lewis. He hadn't stopped. "No way. The guy's sick, Aaron. He gets off on control and mental torture. You wouldn't be able to trust him to give anything away. He'd do whatever would amuse him the most, and that means whatever would hurt you the most." Rossi gave a frustrated sigh. "Look, the team got in last night…"

Hotch's head shot up. He hadn't known they'd been on a case. He'd thought Dave was playing hooky from his desk, not from the field. _And they kept it from me. They're already altering their behavior when it comes to me. And they went on a case without the full team. If they managed it this time, they'll do it again…and again. Exactly what I don't want happening._

Rossi saw the alarm, quickly covered, in Aaron's expression. "Don't do that, Hotch. Don't take on the weight of the world. You're injured, in case you've forgotten. I made the decision to stay behind. I wouldn't have, if there'd been any doubt in my mind that the others couldn't handle things. And don't get me sidetracked with that hangdog, guilty look."

Dave sat straighter, smoothing his beard with one hand. "As I was saying…before you do anything rash about Lewis, let's discuss it with Morgan and Reid. They got in late…" He glanced at his watch. "…They're probably waking up about now. We still have some things to check out even though we know Lewis is at the heart of this…this _campaign_ against you. Let's gather all our info and all our ammunition before we decide anything…okay?"

Aaron gave a grudging nod. He wasn't sure what Rossi was referring to. They'd been shielding him from whatever action had been taken on behalf of their disabled leader. It made him feel strange.

It was just additional incentive to confront the author of his pain.

The only thing stopping him from setting off for Maryland right then and there, was his shoulder. He couldn't drive. But his mind was made up.

Hotch was already thinking that, if the team sided with Rossi and voted against a meeting with Lewis, he'd be taking one hell of a long cab ride.


	57. Consensus

Hotch wasn't the only one to feel teammates were acting without his knowledge.

As soon as Morgan woke up and pried his eyes open with some diesel-strength caffeine, he called Rossi. "I took care of interviewing that Emily Stanhope person."

"I was gonna take care of that later today."

"Well…it's done."

"And?"

"The word that seems to keep cropping up in this whole mess…_Nada_." Morgan's disappointed sigh matched Dave's. "She's just trying to earn some extra money being an errand girl for anyone who'll hire her. Didn't even know her 'employer' was an inmate. So…"

"So we know Lewis is behind everything, but we don't have anything solid to hold over him."

"Rossi…what good would it do? You think adding harassing an FBI agent to his tab above and beyond multiple counts of murder will make a difference? Add a couple months to what'll be a life sentence for sure?"

"No. It won't make a difference in the legal system. What it'll do is make a difference to that massive, narcissistic ego. Knowing we can unravel every move he's made and smirk at him for being so transparent…_that's_ what'll make a difference. It'll throw him off his game and maybe give us a wedge to get in deeper and find out what else, if anything, he's done to Hotch. And taking Lewis down a peg or two might make Hotch feel better."

"Bossman brooding more than usual?" Morgan's tone held sympathy and sadness; things their Unit Chief seemed to command in spades these days.

"Wants to go confront Lewis again."

Dead silence followed Rossi's statement. He let it grow, knowing Derek was turning the idea over and over, examining it for potential gains as well as dangers. Just when Dave was going to say something to prompt a response…it came.

"Wha'd'_you_ think of that, Rossi?"

The senior agent glanced around, making sure of his privacy. "I think of it as a last resort. I didn't like it when you first suggested it. I didn't like it when we went through with it. I don't like it now. My feeling is we should push that sorry excuse for a human being as far out of Hotch's life as possible. But the only feelings that count are Hotch's. Not mine."

"Did they do the strip search and switch his cell yet?"

"I don't know." Dave looked over his shoulder again, lowering his voice. "I've been sticking close to Hotch. Didn't want to call the jail while he was listening. I'm trying to get his mind off of Lewis. Didn't want him asking a lot of questions…you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Morgan's own overdeveloped protective instinct when it came to his teammates let him understand how Rossi felt. There was nothing to be gained by useless supposition. Nothing therapeutic about over-analyzing the situation or the unsub. The only things that would soothe Bossman's mind were hard facts.

And, really, there was only one way to get those, no matter how chancy. Derek took a deep, preparatory breath. "I think there _should_ be another meeting with Lewis."

A small catch in Rossi's breath told Morgan it wasn't a welcome opinion. Before the older man could voice his concerns again, Derek pushed forward. "Only I'm not sure Hotch should be the one taking point. I think the main player should be Reid."

It was Dave's turn to mull over this new kink. It made the whole proposition more palatable in his book. He nodded, sounding thoughtful. "I like that. If anyone can spar with the Devil, it's Reid."

"Got that right. And Peter Lewis is about as close as you can get this side of Hell. And he already knows the kid got the better of him last time…you know…with the cuffs. Might rankle him enough to lose his cool."

A faint smile traced Rossi's lips. "I like it better if I can think that bastard won't get another chance to torture Hotch face to face…Yeah…" Dave nodded to himself, imagining their Unit Chief observing, but nice and safe in a separate room, sitting with a friend. "How 'bout you tell Reid…and I'll tell Hotch."

"Meet up in an hour?"

"Deal."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid hadn't slept well or much.

He knew his brain had a habit of obsessing about theories, especially if a possibility of testing them existed. Ever since suggesting to Rossi that Lewis's incarceration be, in effect, rebooted with new belongings and a new cell, he was running possible outcomes and extrapolations of what certain reactions might mean.

_Oh, face it…you want to be there to see the expression on the guy's face…to read his body language. The guards and staff of the Garrett County jail aren't trained profilers. They're likely to miss all the signs that you'd see as screamingly obvious._

So Spencer tossed and turned and dozed and dreamed, and when his phone went off on his nightstand, right beside his ear, he bolted from a fuzzy place where Peter Lewis was the one struggling with such ferocity that his shoulders dislocated. As Reid picked up the call, he pushed the image from his consciousness, but he couldn't discard his desire to make things better for Hotch.

Several levels of his mind darted off on that boss-beneficial tangent.

He rubbed his eyes as he answered. "Hello?"

"Hey, Pretty Boy…"

"Morgan, I want to go see Peter Lewis again."

It was out of Reid's mouth before he even knew the thought had formed. He had plenty of time to be surprised at himself during the several seconds of silence that was Derek's initial response.

"Morgan? You there?"

"Uh…yeah! Yeah, sure…I'm here…"

"Look, I know you guys probably think we should back off from Lewis and let the system have him, but I really believe the best way to get Hotch some relief from this guy's games is for me to…"

"REID!" Morgan interrupted, an edge of humor in his voice.

"What?"

"I'm feelin' like a road trip to Maryland myself. Pick you up in 20?"

"I'll be waiting on the corner."

Any fatigue from the long and restless night washed away before the surge of adrenaline Reid felt. He wouldn't admit it, but it had been fun to outsmart Lewis last time.

He was hoping for an encore.


	58. One for All

A short time later Reid bundled himself into Morgan's car as it double-parked at the curb.

The youngest agent looked at his friend's sardonic grin and frowned. "What's up?"

"Nothing. I need to make a little detour before we hit the road."

Spencer twisted about in his seat, scrunching down and getting comfortable. "Fine. But can we stop at McDonald's on the way? I need breakfast, if I'm gonna deal with Lewis."

"Pretty Boy, it's way past breakfast time. Can you deal with a burger instead of that egg-muffin thing?"

Reid grumbled and glowered. "Guess I'll have to."

"Hmmm." Morgan gave him a cryptic look. "Maybe not. We'll see."

"Just go where you have to go. I didn't sleep too well. Gonna take a nap on the way."

A noncommittal grunt was Derek's reply.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid's only response when Morgan pulled into Rossi's driveway was to mumble something unintelligible and shift position, curling down deeper in his seat, snuggling into the wooly lapels of the coat he was wearing.

"Hey." Derek gripped one boney shoulder and gave it a shake. "Pretty Boy. Wake up."

Spencer batted at the offending hand disturbing his attempt to make up for a restless night.

Shaking his head, Morgan smiled, unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out from behind the wheel. Glad to have found a moment of potential mischief in what would be an otherwise disquieting day, he trudged up to Rossi's front door, pressing the bell as he checked to make sure Reid hadn't stirred.

Dave opened it, adjusting the collar of his own coat in preparation for their journey. "Hey. Hotch's almost ready. We'll take my car." He peered over Morgan's shoulder. "Where's the kid?"

"Yeah. About that. I think he had a rough night. I woke him when I called him. Said something about needing breakfast and then dozed off again."

Rossi frowned, still looking toward Derek's car. "That's not good. If he's our point man, he needs to be at the top of his form." He paused, gave a deep sigh, and shed his coat. "Alright…let's wake him up with something worth opening his eyes for."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Now that his conscious mind knew he was on his way to confront Peter Lewis, Reid's subconscious was more amenable to allowing him to sleep.

But the dream he was having was…different.

It began with a fleeing unsub taking refuge in a building. A restaurant. Spencer pursued with relentless diligence. He wasn't sure at what point the obstacles started appearing. But the only way to continue the chase was to work his way through the massive walls and bulkheads that were thrown up in his path. A massive wall of scrambled eggs laced with cheese. A solid bacon bulkhead. The only method that worked was for him to eat his way through. Reid moaned at the buttery smell of toast. The unsub was taunting him…daring him to…

"C'mon, kid…Wakey, wakey, Reid…Rise and shine…"

Spencer's eyes fluttered to slits…and then opened wide.

A huge plate mounded with eggs, bacon and toast was being held before his nose, the savory aromas wafting their way into his dreams. Disheveled and confused, Reid's large, amber eyes fixed on the angel proffering this repast.

Rossi's gruff voice cleared away the rest of the sleepy miasma. "C'mon, kid. Sit up. Take your breakfast and let's get going."

With a contented sigh, Reid complied.

He didn't even voice his surprise that Rossi and Hotch would be joining him and Morgan.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Satiated, Spencer stowed his empty plate beneath his seat and curled up to resume his interrupted nap.

They'd switched vehicles. Rossi was driving, with Morgan in the passenger seat. They'd stowed Hotch and Reid in the back, thinking that the Unit Chief's injured shoulder would do better where he had more room to adjust his position.

Keeping tabs on things via the rearview mirror, Dave saw the young genius settling down. "Reid! Before you drift off, let's make sure we're all on the same page when it comes to Lewis."

Spencer continued to make some sort of nest out of his coat and a couple of spare blankets he'd found as he responded. "I think a profiler should be on hand when they change Lewis's cell. I think it should be me."

"What do mean 'change' his cell?" Hotch's feeling that his team was working behind his back, trying to protect him, was growing. He both appreciated and resented their efforts.

Morgan turned in his seat, the better to speak to his leader face to face. "Pretty Boy's idea. We figured we'd find out how Lewis reacted if we deprived him of everything he has and made him start from scratch in a new cell with a new set of gear." He saw a dubious look in Hotch's eye. "Look, man, he's obviously got a phone. Reid figured if he didn't mind being relocated, it would mean someone on staff is giving him phone privileges on the sly. But if the dude freaks out, then he's got the phone in his possession and it's hidden in his cell. Change the cell and the phone's out of the picture."

Rossi felt the need for a dose of reality. "I haven't called the jail since I asked them to make the switch. Didn't want to press my luck by being too much of a pest. But, guys, they've had ample time. It's probably already a done deal."

Hotch was chewing his bottom lip, looking distinctly unhappy. "I don't care what the guy has on hand. I care about what he left behind in _me_…not his cell." He turned to stare out the window, ashamed of his admission that an unsub had gotten hooks into him he couldn't remove.

Rossi and Morgan exchanged glances. But it was Reid's soft voice that dropped like a soothing balm on Hotch.

"Don't worry. When we get there, if they've already done it, I'll tell him I was behind it. Just like I was behind wreaking his plan to commit suicide by cop using you, Hotch." The youngest agent snuggled down into his makeshift bed. "By the time we leave, I'll be the one he wants to hurt. Not you. I'll make sure you're safe."

With a tremendous yawn, Reid closed his eyes, murmuring a last reassurance. "I'll probably have to say some stuff that'll sound bad about you, Hotch…but it won't be true…" His voice faded. "…just like that time with Tobias Henkel…but don't worry…I won't really mean it…" With a deep sigh, the young genius, who fretted about hurting people's feelings even as he worked to save them, drifted off.

More than his words, what comforted Aaron was how easily Spencer fell asleep. If he was concerned about confronting Lewis, it didn't show.

Hotch, on the other hand, stared at the passing landscape and felt his stomach tightening into a nest of knots.


	59. Salvage Operation

"You know, we bent over backwards for you people already."

The Garrett County sheriff had been tidying things away for the day, ready to go home. Visions of the pot roast his wife was preparing danced through his head, beckoning him. The last thing he'd wanted was for a crew of FBI agents to show up at sundown, expecting to go another round with their most unsettling inmate.

"You and your people have been a big help, and we're grateful, but…" Rossi was endeavoring to be his suavest, most charming, ingratiating self. "…it's a little hard to explain without going into more detail than I'm sure you want to hear. All the requests and special favors…they're all part of a process. If we stop now, all the preparation, all the groundwork _you've_ laid…" Dave hoped this man would feel more involved, more important than he really was. It would make things easier if he believed he had a stake in a semi-secret FBI operation. No matter how far from the truth that was. "…All that groundwork will have been for nothing. Please. Let us continue with one more interview."

The sheriff sighed, giving the motley crew standing before him a look that made it clear he was aware of the soft-shoe, soft-sell they were hoping would pander to his ego. "Will this take long?"

Rossi hesitated. He wasn't sure what Reid had planned, but he imagined it would take a fair amount of time to spar with an ego and an intellect on the order of Peter Lewis's. "That depends on the prisoner." He shrugged. "As you well know."

The sheriff's eyes traveled from Rossi, clearly a seasoned pro…to Morgan, looking hulking and determined…to Reid, oddly, the youngest yet the most at ease…to Hotch. They lingered on the injured man with the haunted eyes. Hotch cradled his arm encased in its sling and looked miserable.

The sheriff nodded toward the Unit Chief. "I don't want a man who's already been hurt once going in for a second round."

"He won't be." Rossi felt a surge of triumph. Setting out conditions meant the outcome had been decided; the meeting would go forth. "He'll just be an observer."

Hotch looked as if he were about to object. Morgan's hand rubbed his back, communicating a cautionary message. _Let's get through the door, Bossman. We can discuss details later._

The sheriff gave a small, resigned exhale. "Alright." He slipped his coat off, abandoning the idea of home and pot roast…for the moment, anyway. "I'll give the word and get you set up. Same as last time. Interrogation room 3. Observation right around the corner."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I hope it's the last time we'll be trespassing on your territory."

"Hmmmm. We'll see." The man gave Rossi a wary look.

In his experience, nothing was ever over until the inmate had been moved off the premises to a prison facility.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"They already switched cells and gave him new gear." Reid sighed when the agents were brought up to speed on the inmate they wished to interview.

"Yeah, but they said he wasn't happy about it. Didn't throw a fit, but turned a new shade of pale." Morgan grinned. "I don't care what it means…I'm happy to hear about anything that throws that rat-faced bastard off his game."

"I know. I wish I'd been here to see him, though." Spencer took a deep breath. "Well…let's get on with it."

"I wanna be in there with you." Hotch's voice was low, but steady.

"No. No way."

"It's not your call, Morgan. It's mine."

Derek's lips pressed into a thin line. He moved to stand directly in front of his Unit Chief. "I don't care whose call it is, Hotch. I'm not letting it happen." He reached a slow hand out and took hold of Aaron's good shoulder. "I'll try not to hurt you, Bossman." As tentatively as if he were approaching a cornered, feral dog that might lunge with bared teeth at any moment, Morgan slid his other hand around Hotch's waist.

His grip was gentle, but controlling. "That's the one thing you can't ask me to do Hotch…stand by and watch you get hurt. Can't do it." He braced himself. "I'm not letting go."

Aaron studied his teammate's expression. He might have argued. He might have tried to move out of Morgan's hold. But he didn't.

Because evident in Derek's open face were determination and regret.

But most of all, the kind of respectful affection that gave brotherhood meaning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis had had a rough day.

First, the ill-fortuned transfer to a new cell. Then, he'd tried to sweet talk his way back into his attorney's good graces. Hadn't worked.

But his efforts _had_ brought a smile to Jerry Swanson's face.

After their last less-than-cordial conference, the lawyer had felt used and helpless. Now, the shoe wasn't quite on the other foot, but it was no longer kicking Jerry in the teeth.

_Lewis could still end my career by telling someone where that phone is hidden and revealing the whole story. But now…now, if he does anything to compromise me, he'll have no chance in hell of ever getting more contraband smuggled in. I've got a little more control than I did yesterday…_

Lewis had been able to read Swanson's train of thought as though the tracks were laid across his smug, gloating face. He'd begged for another chance, another phone. He'd dangled all kinds of promises and dreams, waiting for the attorney to rise to the bait. The best he'd been able to obtain was a vague 'We'll see…'.

Peter knew what that meant. It meant toeing the line…being a good boy…catering to the midget mind of a man whose very inferiority had made him a prime candidate to serve as Lewis's controlled pawn.

It rankled.

It galled.

Lewis was chewing on his bitterness and anger at having burned his bridge with Swanson. He spurned his dinner and returned to his new cell intending to stretch out in his bunk and let his marvelous mind wander at will. Sometimes letting go was the way he solved problems best.

But…oh, he dearly wished that he had someone to vent on.

_Sweet, sad, little Agent Hotchner would have been perfect. I could have called him and told him some lovely bedtime stories…about his son…about his son's death…about how maybe his son's death is already programmed into Daddy and is just a matter of time…_

Peter smirked, letting the fantasy take him.

He wasn't at all pleased when a guard came clanking up and unlocked the cell.

"You got visitors. C'mon."

"Who?" Lewis asked from his reclining position, reluctant to move.

"I dunno. FBI or something. C'mon! Move it!"

Peter's smirk turned into a full-on grin.

_Maybe it's sweet, sad , little Aaron Hotchner! If not, maybe it's someone who can be persuaded to take a message to sweet, sad, little Aaron Hotchner…_

Maybe this day wasn't a total loss after all.


	60. Transformation

By the time Peter Lewis was conducted to interrogation room #3, he had convinced himself that the reason the FBI had come to see him was his campaign against Agent Hotchner.

He was delighted. That would mean his meddling in the man's mind was having an impact.

Knowing the nature of the agent he'd been tormenting; having taken a stroll through the Unit Chief's psyche, Lewis had high hopes that it would be Hotchner himself who would walk through the door when the time came. Quivering with eager anticipation, Peter didn't realize he was holding his breath when the door began to ease its way open. But he _did_ realize it when it expelled in a gusty _whoosh_ of disappointment.

Then he recognized the man who entered. Disappointment was joined by resentment.

It was the ludicrous clown who had bobbled about at his last confrontation with the FBI. The inconsequential buffoon who had stammered and chattered, slipping his way past as Peter was held in the hall. The man who'd foiled an otherwise beautiful plot. The man who was the reason Peter was an inmate instead of happily dead.

"You." Lewis bit the word off with a snap.

"Me." Reid's mild smile and easy demeanor as he took a seat opposite the inmate fanned the flames of Peter's discontent.

"Why are you here?"

Spencer's smile widened. "To talk."

"Obviously. But why _you_?"

A full-fledged grin emerged. "Because we're two of a kind."

Lewis's eyes narrowed, wondering what game was about to be played. He didn't trust this agent who'd ruined what would have been his crowning achievement.

But when Reid rose and, stretching to his full height, turned off the camera mounted on a bracket high in a corner with a deft click…Lewis became intrigued.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi stood in the observation room, intent on every word, every move.

Their young colleague hadn't shared much of his strategy beyond the few sleep-slurred words he'd murmured on the drive up. It was a measure of their trust that they hadn't insisted on Reid's going into excruciating detail before letting him move on with his plan.

But now, all three were worried for their teammate.

"He's turning off the camera." Morgan stated the obvious, concern threading its way through each syllable.

"He's trying to instill trust? Like the guy's words are off the record?" Rossi frowned.

"Or demonstrate complicity." Hotch shivered and swallowed hard. It was like watching the most poisonous snake in the world, knowing it was behind glass, but feeling it could seep venom into your veins within seconds. And might find a way to do just that…glass or no.

Morgan moved behind his Unit Chief, placing gentle hands on his shoulders, eyes still fixed on the men in the interrogation room. "It's alright, Hotch. Lewis can't hurt him. It took drugs and time with you. Bastard doesn't have what it takes to get into Reid's head."

Rossi edged closer to his best friend, sensing his need for support and reassurance. "Remember what the kid said, Aaron. Don't believe him. He's playing a part. And you taught him well."

"Yeah. Pretty Boy's had the best training there is. He'll be okay." Morgan gave the shoulders under his hands a careful rub. "You'll be okay, too."

But his words didn't exactly ring with confidence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter watched the tiny, ruby light on the surveillance camera wink out.

He covered his curiosity with what he considered well-deserved skepticism. "According to my attorney, there's no question of my guilt. I'm caught in the wheels of the justice system and they're going to do their slow, incompetent job of crushing me." He jerked his chin at the dead-eyed camera. "Do you think it matters what I do or say at this point?"

Reid resumed his seat, glancing around the room as though checking for other devices that would infringe on their privacy. "I think you better start putting that intellect you're so proud of to work on survival skills. The wheels might be set to crush you, but that doesn't mean you have to go down alone."

Lewis's face was a perfect blank. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you tried to make destroying Aaron Hotchner your farewell act, and…"

"Which _you_ stopped."

"I had my reasons." Reid matched the inmate's deadpan expression.

After a moment's silent standoff, Lewis sighed. "Care to share what those were?"

Spencer leaned in, eyes burning with intensity…or so he hoped… "I know what you did to him. I couldn't let it end that quickly."

Peter's eyes darted over his visitor, beady and reptilian. "What's your name?"

"Reid. Spencer Reid. _Doctor_ Spencer Reid."

Lewis's brows rose a fraction. "What kind of doctor?"

"The kind that the FBI hires. And trusts. The kind that has to put up with inferior intelligence…_government_ intelligence…at every turn. The kind that wants a way to, shall we say, redesign the balance of power."

Peter glanced away, shaking his head. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"A thousand reasons." He leaned back, folding his arms. "What is it you _really_ want? To know what else I might have done to Agent Hotchner? Did he send you here because he's scared of what might be waiting around the corner, ready to jump out and go 'Boo!' ?"

Reid snickered. "Are you kidding? The guy's a mess. He's not sending anyone anywhere. He's off duty, skulking around his house. Scared of answering his phone. Scared of answering his door."

Lewis didn't bother to hide his enjoyment. He giggled. "So you want to know what _else_ is brewing in him?...waiting to bubble up to the surface?...so you can at least warn him, right? Take away the surprise factor that gives that added punch to all the demons I set up in his head?"

"_NO_."

It was one word, but it was as explosive as a rifle report. Reid's features transformed, pulling together, curdling, reflecting the cruelty and sadism he sensed in Lewis. "That's _not_ what I want. I don't give a damn _what_ you've done to Hotchner…"

"Then what is it you _do_ want…Doctor?" The honorific was sneered, which only served to feed Reid's dislike. He used his growing revulsion to render his expression even more sinister.

"I want you to teach me. Teach me how you turned a Unit Chief of the FBI into a sniveling coward jumping at his own shadow. Teach me…and watch your work spread through their ranks…" Spencer grinned his most diabolic. "Think of it…just think of it…"

Lewis would…

XXXXXXXXXX

In the observation room, all three agents had drawn closer against the disturbing scene playing out before them. Unconsciously seeking comfort in each other's proximity.

As the inmate and the doctor, geniuses both, faced off, Morgan's hands tightened on Hotch's shoulders, eliciting a grunt of pain when he'd gone too far with the injured one.

"Sorry, man…sorry." Derek was quick to lighten his grip.

" 'S okay," Hotch murmured, attention focused on the growing grin on Lewis's face…reflected on Spencer's. The Unit Chief swallowed a hard lump of anxiety. "You think I taught Reid to do that?"

"Yeah. You did." Rossi's voice was low. "You taught him to empathize with unsubs, and he ran with it."

"He's good. Scary good." Hotch cleared his throat, trying to break out of the thrall of watching someone he thought of as innocent and a bit feckless, turn evil. "Never seen this side of him before."

"Thank God for that," Dave whispered.

Hotch and Morgan didn't blink when they replied in unison…

"Amen."


	61. Post-Bout Analysis

Reid's small, satisfied smirk when he emerged from the interrogation room was right in character.

He stepped aside as the night guard took custody of Lewis, pushing him down the corridor toward his cell. But not before the inmate gave Reid a narrow, speculative look. The young agent cocked one brow upwards, the evil tilt to his expression still in place.

He maintained it until guard and prisoner disappeared around a corner. Then, free to shed the role he'd assumed, Spencer slumped, his back against a wall. His tell-tale lip chewing was in full force by the time his teammates reached him.

XXXXXXXXX

As soon as it was clear the meeting was over, Hotch had made a move toward the door of the observation room; his whole focus telescoped down to the welfare of his youngest agent.

Seeing Reid morph himself into someone so diametrically the opposite of who Aaron knew him to be had been disturbing to witness. Hotch could only guess how difficult it must have been for the puppy-innocent spirit of Spencer's true nature to take on that malevolent mantle.

"Whoa! Bossman!" Morgan arrested Hotch's progress, gripping his good arm. "Slow down, man. Remember, you're supposed to be housebound and…wha'did Pretty Boy call it?"

"Skulking. I'm supposed to be skulking at home."

"Yeah. So Rat-Face can't see you."

All three agents paused, giving inmate and guard ample time to vacate the room, and the hall. After a few moments, almost as one, they lunged toward the door, anxious to get to Reid. When they reached their young colleague, all his 'tells' for distress were running full tilt. Hunched posture. Churning lips. Eyes locked on the tiled floor between his feet.

His teammates took it all in, slowing and approaching with care, giving each other concerned glances.

"Ya done good, Pretty Boy." Morgan's tone was light, but it wasn't echoed in his expression. He studied his friend's semi-averted face. Reid didn't look up. He shrugged one shoulder.

"Yeah. I guess. Maybe."

"Kid, he's right. That was…exceptional." Rossi's gentle voice still couldn't coax eye contact.

"Reid. Look at me." Hotch was at low volume, but he had the ability to infuse his words with underlying authority; like a river whose soft, clear currents flow over a bed of iron. "That's a direct order, Agent. Look at me."

Spencer swallowed, stilled his lips as best he could, and obeyed. "Hotch…I'm sorry…I had to…"

"Reid." Again, the rumble of quiet command. A good portion of the Unit Chief's ability to lead came from the fact that he expected obedience, and never doubted he would get it. His belief that it would be given was a power in itself. Even weak, injured, and psychologically damaged, Hotch's alpha nature embodied the basic ingredients of control. His youngest agent fell quiet.

"Reid…I'm proud of you. Well done."

The genius's lips trembled, broadcasting his anguish. "But…but the things I said, Hotch. I didn't mean any of…"

"I know. You don't have to explain." A tepid grin traced their leader's lips. The first they'd seen in days. "If you recall, I said some pretty bad things about you once. And I kicked you." His nascent grin faded. "We do what we have to do to keep victims and ourselves safe, Reid. No more apologies."

Spencer nodded, but his gaze dropped to the floor again. "I don't know if he bought it. I think he did, but… I don't know for sure."

"You will." Rossi looked in the direction Lewis had been taken. "He'll get in touch one way or the other, and you'll know."

At last, Reid stood away from the wall, but his posture was still caved in on itself. "You're right. Either he'll believe me and offer to act as my teacher. If he doesn't, he'll still get in touch…"

"…because he'll want to use you and try to damage you along the way." Hotch's voice was rough. He ran a hand through his hair, setting off a mild explosion of cowlicks. "I don't like this. Lewis is twisted. And Reid is…"

"The best chance we have of defeating him." Rossi, ever the seasoned voice of reason, looked at each of his teammates. "It's been a long day. Let's go home. And tomorrow, Reid'll call, ask to talk to Lewis, and see if he's on board."

Morgan nodded, throwing in his support. "Don't worry, Bossman. Our Pretty Boy can take on Rat-Face any day of the week and come out on top."

Hotch's dark, sad eyes tracked from Rossi to Morgan to Reid. His shoulder hurt, and seeing Lewis again made him feel shaky and vulnerable. Something about this meeting had lanced its way into him, making him all too aware of how damaged he was. He didn't want any of the others to risk that.

As his agents returned his solemn regard, it was Reid who clued in on something he'd neglected to take into account. "Oh, God…Hotch…the voice…_his_ voice…I…I forgot…" If Spencer had looked dejected before, he'd just taken several steps down into darker territory. "Oh, no…" He buried his face in his hands for a moment, coming up with eyes that glistened a little too wetly.

"Kid?"

"The voice. Remember? When this all started, it was his voice that wouldn't leave Hotch alone. And I knew…I said over and over that Hotch is an auditory person more than visual or tactile or any other sense. We shouldn't have let him come here. We should have protec…"

"Reid!" If the Unit Chief was especially sensitive to aural cues, he also knew how to use them. It was part of why he could command with a word…could stop Garcia's tirades…could redirect Spencer when his thoughts outstripped his ability to put them into words…could bring his sub-alpha, Morgan, to heel when his passions overflowed…could comfort and console and bolster…could end things that needed ending.

"Reid…I wanted to come. If it hadn't been with you, I would have hired a car. I would have found a way. So, that's an end to it…except…" Hotch bent his neck in a respectful nod. "…Thank you. All of you." After a beat of dignified silence…

"We done?…" Rossi glanced around as each teammate nodded. "Good. Let's go find a hotel. One with room service. My treat."

Rossi's deep pockets would make sure they were rested before Reid began his second round with Peter Lewis.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lewis had a lot to think about.

He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling and dissecting his conversation with Dr. Reid.

One thing bothered him right from the start. The guard who'd fetched him had said he had visitors…plural. So someone else had been here. At least one more person. One more agent, most likely.

_I'll have to question him about that. And I'll have to test him._ A Creep-Boy grin insinuated itself across his thin, bloodless lips. _And I know just how to do it. _

He gave a contented sigh and turned on his side, ready to call it a day. The grin stayed with him even after he'd fallen asleep.

Tomorrow, if Dr. Reid was the real deal, it would be a very bad day indeed for sad, little Aaron Hotchner.


	62. A Darker Shade of Reid

"We don't all have to be here, you know."

Rossi spread raspberry jam over a triangle of toast in their hotel dining room and wondered if he could persuade Hotch to go home and rest. He doubted it, but it was worth a try. He dabbed the embellished toast into some stray egg yolk on a plate that bore all the signs of a large, well-enjoyed breakfast.

"We can trust Reid to handle things." He ignored the Unit Chief's searching stare. "In fact, I was thinking you and I could head back to Quantico, Aaron. Morgan and the kid'll be fine on their own."

"I'm not here because I don't trust Reid. I'm here because…because…" Hotch was keenly aware that the young genius had stopped eating; large, amber eyes fastened on his leader. Because he _did_ trust his team, Hotch decided to go with his real reasons for being here when he was clearly still suffering. "I'm here because I feel responsible. For this whole mess. I needed to see…_him_…one more time."

Silence fell over the table, broken only by the sound of cutlery and murmured conversation from surrounding diners. Aaron was giving his coffee cup all his attention, avoiding the judgment he knew he'd see if he looked at his teammates. It didn't help. Spencer's hesitant voice delivered judgment anyway.

"Hotch, no one thinks you're responsible for what happened to you…or anyone else Lewis victimized. And I like having you around, 'cause, well…" Reid leaned over the remnants of his meal, poking at crusts and crumbs to hide his disquiet. "… 'cause you're kind of a security blanket for the whole team. We can handle stuff, but we feel better when we see you watching over everything. The thing is…" He looked up, finding his leader's intense eyes trained on him. "…I had a hard time yesterday…ya know…playing that part…playing up to Lewis… 'cause I knew you were there…listening. And…and…it's not that I don't want you here…"

"Reid." Hotch arrested his youngest agent's flow of words. He paused to take a breath. When he spoke, his voice was soft, un-accusing. "Are you trying to say you'd be more comfortable if I didn't listen in when you're with Lewis?"

"No, no…I'm sorry, Hotch, but I don't even want you in the same building with him. The same town. Or…or state." Spencer's eyes dropped. He waited for whatever storm of criticism his honest answer might bring.

Compared to the light, convivial conversations surrounding them, it felt as though the table with the FBI agents was enveloped in a cone of silence. Hotch realized Morgan and Rossi were watching him. The next move was his.

Another man might have taken offense. Another man might have found insult in the young genius's words. But Aaron was a leader, and a profiler, and a deeply caring man whose paternal feelings extended to every member of his team, although he tried to hide the surge of emotion he felt every time he walked into the BAU and saw them hard at work. _**My**__ team. Mine. The best._

He leaned in, focusing on the nervous agent waiting for someone to tell him he was wrong or didn't understand or lived on a wavelength no one else shared or any of the thousand other things Spencer had been told throughout his life when others couldn't jump on the fast-moving, streamlined train of his thoughts. "Reid, your only concern should be Lewis and your own safety. Tell me what you need to make this work for you. Tell me how I can help."

Spencer mumbled his reply to the plate in front of him. "Could you go home, Hotch? Please?"

It wasn't what he'd wanted to hear, but, if he made the effort to empathize, Aaron could understand. He could appreciate Reid's sensitivity about bad-mouthing his boss. Going up against a killer and a genius like Peter Lewis required every ounce of concentration. Spencer couldn't afford to be even marginally distracted by a kind heart that decried saying degrading things about the Unit Chief.

Hotch nodded. "Rossi, that offer to drive me home still open?"

"Sure."

Aaron's eyes tracked to Morgan. "I don't want Reid left here alone…"

"You got it, Bossman. I'm not gonna take my eyes off him."

Hotch gave Spencer a long, searching look. "Alright then. Be careful. Call us with updates and if there's anything we can do to help…besides keeping clear." He attempted a smile, but it fell flat, manifesting in an unconvincing twitch. "And be careful."

"You already told him that."

"Bears repeating."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By midmorning, Rossi and Hotch were on the road headed home to Quantico.

And Reid was gearing himself up to phone the Garrett County jail.

After a wait of several minutes while inmate #7962 was brought from his cell to the phone where a guard would stand beside him, monitoring the call, the thin, sibilant voice of Peter Lewis spoke.

"Good morning, Dr. Reid."

"Lewis. Have you thought things over?"

"Yes…yes, I have."

"And?"

The prisoner cast a sidelong look at the bored uniform eavesdropping on his call in case nefarious plans were mentioned or confessions blurted. _As though there's any chance in hell I'd be caught out by the plodding drones and morons that fill this hole._

"I think we should talk again, Dr. Reid."

"Alright. I'll be in."

Both men hung up, leaving the listening guard none the wiser.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid and Morgan had no trouble setting up the second encounter with Lewis.

It was daytime. The jail staff were much more accommodating during normal business hours when strangers flashed Justice Department badges. Within minutes, Derek was ensconced in an observation room, watching Spencer psych himself up for another meeting.

"You were good yesterday, kid. You can take Rat-Face. Don't worry."

"Maybe. If we were playing chess or sci-fi trivia…maybe. But this is different. He's going to need some kind of proof that I'm really on his side and not just out to expose all his methods and secrets."

Morgan frowned. "He say something to make you think that?"

"Didn't have to. It's what I'd want." Reid turned an anxious gaze on his friend. "The biggest danger for me is underestimating him…"

"Because it's safe to underestimate 99.999% of the human race and you usually don't have to think about it." Derek's words, like his smile held no censure. "Don't worry, Pretty Boy. You're talkin' to someone who knows you inside out. And wouldn't change a thing about you….except maybe…"

Reid's honeyed eyes turned tragic. "W-what?"

"Maybe make you believe in yourself more." Morgan caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned. "Hey. They're bringing Rat-Face in. You're up, kid. I'll be right here the whole time. You got this."

Spencer swallowed. "Okay. Give me a sec…"

Derek's features blanked as he watched the younger agent transform. There was nothing he could put his finger on. It was a qualitative…shift. He wasn't sure how it happened, but the man who walked out the door, headed for the interrogation room, was cynical and bitter with an edge of meanness to him.

Definitely not the Pretty Boy to whom Morgan would trust his life.

XXXXXXXXX

Reid didn't bother greeting Lewis.

He turned off the camera as he had the day before, and took a seat. The two men stared each other down. At least, that's what it looked like to Morgan sequestered behind an expanse of one-way mirror.

In reality, Reid was focusing. All his antennae were up and pointed toward his adversary. He was dredging up buried experiences and traits that he would embrace to create the personality he hoped would entice Peter Lewis to share.

The young agent let all the pain and anger and hate from a lifetime of being bullied and misunderstood and humiliated rise. He accessed the rage he suppressed every time he saw an unsub's work perpetrated on an innocent. He gathered all the forbidden desire for vengeance, holding it close…savoring it.

Reid brought all his skills to the fore, knowing he'd need them, because he was going toe to toe with an equal.

Lewis studied the young FBI agent and wished he'd been able to research him. But he was confident in his own intellectual superiority. This boy might be smart, but, if he was brilliant, he wouldn't be working for such a mundane, hidebound, government agency. Then, too, he could sense a very nasty undercurrent in the agent. Not like the untrammeled, repulsive nobility of sad, little Aaron Hotchner. He leaned forward.

"Well, Dr. Reid…let's start with who came here with you. And then, if I accept your answer, we'll discuss your…shall we say…tuition?...for my tutelage.

One side of Spencer's mouth drew up in a sly smirk. _I'm in…so far._


	63. Dicing with the Devil

Reid's mind raced.

It always sped on a multitude of levels in disparate directions concerning a wealth of subjects, but this time was different. This time Spencer's brain functioned like a tree, branches sprouting from the seeds of potential actions. _If I say this, then he'll say either this…or this…or this…and he'll actually be thinking this…or this…or this…which will lead to this…or…_

The young agent reined himself in; reminded himself of the rules of chess that Jason Gideon had taught him so long ago. _Think ahead, but not too far ahead. Each theoretical step you take, makes it that much harder to backtrack if your opponent doesn't move in conformity with your supposition. Allow for your adversary's unpredictability, even if it's a tiny allowance._ Reid smiled. _Or as Morgan would say, 'Roll with the punches.'_

"Something amusing you, Doctor?" Peter Lewis's sibilant voice oozed into Spencer's thoughts.

The agent realized he was smiling…let it grow wider. Part of his strategy was to deny very little. Instead, he would weave lies around honest reactions. It would make a denser cover for his true motives. Even if Lewis was a master-weaver himself, he might not expect others to equal him.

Reid thought of another lesson. One Emily Prentiss had taught him. _Don't be too smart. People like dumb. People like to explain things. Let them help you and tell you stuff. You'll be amazed at how vulnerable they'll make themselves to you._

So the doctor didn't try to hide or deny. His smile spread. "Just looking forward to some fun. Maybe some payback." _For Hotch._

Lewis studied the agent with dead eyes. "We'll see. Now, answer my question. Who's here with you?" An avid, greedy light entered the flat eyes. "Is it Aaron Hotchner?"

"I told you: Hotchner's at home. Too scared to leave." Reid gave his head a small shake, chuckling. "Basket case." He could feel the inmate's regard skewering him, searching for the lies. "But you're right. I'm not here alone…" _Forgive me, Morgan…_ "I brought the muscle with me. You remember. You met him last time. Big guy. Black. More brawn than brain…"

Recollection was in Lewis's expression as he sat back, nodding. "Ohhh, yes. Him. Is he watching?"

Spencer snorted. "Are you kidding? Guy's got a one-track mind. Probably off seeing if he can get an introduction to the women's wing."

Lewis settled back in his chair, letting his gaze rove over his visitor. If ever there was someone who looked like the type who'd had a hard time socially, spanning his experiences from grade school to present day, this fidgety misfit qualified. Peter could understand the man's resentment of the muscular Adonis's ability to attract female attention. _Probably hates everyone he works with for being better adjusted than he is._

The irony wasn't wasted on Lewis. _But I'm smart enough to work out vengeance on my own. This guy isn't. Needs to ride my coattails._ His lips twisted with scornful mirth.

Reid saw the ugly smile. "So now you're the one amused? You wouldn't be if you had to work with that moron." He crossed his arms, shaking his head in disgust. "You know, I think the most important qualification for joining the FBI is being able to fit an off-the-rack suit." He picked at a pulled thread on the saggy cardigan he favored. "Assholes."

Lewis was beginning to enjoy himself. "But they let someone like you in."

"Only so far. Just far enough to do all their thinking. To figure everything out so the glory-hounds like Hotchner can take credit and climb over my back."

"Mmmmm…" The inmate's eyes glittered. "So poor, little Agent Hotchner's not doing so well?"

Reid gave a gusty sigh. "I told you: I don't care about him. He's finished." His chin lifted, smile appearing again. "I never thanked you for getting him out of the way, did I?" Spencer threw his arms wide, bowing his head. "Thank you."

Lewis watched the man across the table for a few beats. "So you wouldn't mind getting a few more out of the way? That's your story?"

"Not story. Fact."

"Uh-huh." The tip of Peter's tongue made a wet appearance, darting across his lips like a child anticipating a greedy sweet. "Well, I'm not done with sad, little Aaron. So, if you want me to take you under my wing and make you my protégé, there's something you'll have to do to finish him off."

Reid covered his alarm well. In the observation room, even Morgan thought he looked more impatient than scared. "I told you, I…don't…care…about…him."

Lewis's features hardened. "I do. And I'm in charge. So you'll do as I say or you'll go back home and lie down so all those nicely polished wingtips that go with those off-the-rack suits, can continue to leave footprints all over you."

"Fine." Spencer sounded like a petulant child. A very _bored_ petulant child. "What's the price of…what did you call it?...tuition?"

"You're going to bring little Aaron a present. And you're going to record his reaction on your phone. Then you're going to come back and show it to me. And believe me…" Lewis's tongue danced over his lips again. "…I'll know if he's acting. I'll know if you've warned him ahead of time." He giggled. "It'll be the crowning touch to all the groundwork I've already laid. You in?"

Reid's stomach turned as he leaned forward, mirroring the inmate's avid expression. "I'm in. Tell me what to do."

"First, you get an airtight container. He can't suspect what it is until he opens it…I want the biggest impact possible, since it'll be his finale…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi glanced at his passenger.

"You're awfully quiet."

"Mmm."

Dave had rented a car for the return journey. He hadn't wanted Morgan and Reid to be left without transportation. A few miles of pavement passed under the wheels before Rossi stole another look at Hotch. "Worried about the kid?"

"Of course I am." The Unit Chief's voice was low. "I should be the one in there. Not Reid."

"No, Aaron. That's your overweening sense of responsibility talking. It's the alpha ego. This is being handled exactly the way it should. There's nothing to worry about. Peter Lewis can't drug Reid and plant suggestions in him. The worst that could happen is he sees through the ruse and the kid feels like he failed."

"That's _not_ the worst that could happen, Dave. Not by a long shot." A rumble of anger bubbled up through Hotch's worried tone. He cradled his injured arm in its sling and stared straight ahead at the road as he spoke.

"Out of all of us, Reid's the last one I ever want going undercover. I know he's done it, but I try to avoid assigning him that."

"But when he's done it, he's been good. _Very_ good."

"It costs him too much." Hotch sighed, frowning. "His brain is different from the rest of ours. Part of that difference is he doesn't have the same shields we do. I've tried to figure it out, and I know it's related to compartmentalizing, but he can't put things away. His mind isn't capable of _not_ delving into them. He got into Dilaudid because he couldn't stop. He doesn't know how to let go."

"He's curious. That's a good thing. Part of why he knows so much." Rossi shrugged. "If you've got a brain like that, you gotta use it. He does."

"To a fault." Hotch paused, biting his lip in frustration at his inability to communicate why he dreaded making his youngest agent assume a role that jarred with his true nature. "What I'm trying to say is…Reid picks up mental scars more easily than the rest of the team. And now I know what mental scars can do firsthand. I know what they feel like." His voice cracked, but recovered in a heartbeat. "Reid's brain is marvelous…powerful…but it's also his Achilles heel. He knows it. To put him in with a sociopath who's an expert at damaging people mentally…"

"He'll be alright, Aaron. He'll walk away when it's over."

"Acting as though he's on an unsub's level, strikes at that innocence we all sense in him. It's not a matter of his age. Reid's always going to be an innocent. He's always going to be at risk when he comes up against people like Lewis."

"There aren't 'people like Lewis,' Aaron. Thank God, he's one of a kind."

"So's Reid." Hotch's voice faded out. "I just don't want him to get hurt in that one of a kind way."

Rossi wanted to say something reassuring, but Aaron would know empty words when he heard them. The truth was, Reid was born brilliant and vulnerable.

One was the price of the other.

They'd just have to wait and see how he survived being put in a cage with the likes of Lewis.


	64. Tuition

Reid did his best to hide his revulsion.

He was lucky that Lewis was enjoying himself so much. He attributed the agent's rigid posture and stark expression to his being impressed and intent on every detail, rather than being repulsed. He didn't take note of Spencer's growing pallor. Lewis didn't know Reid well enough to judge changes in his complexion.

"So you have your instructions, Doctor." Lewis gave in to the mirth he'd been holding at bay, giggling, rocking back and forth. "You do all that and bring it back to me, and I'll know you're serious about learning my, uh,…_art_." His laughter trilled upward like a schoolgirl's. "Yessss…my _art_!"

Reid's brain was, continuously and still, running full tilt; gaging how the inmate would react to a variety of different things he could say, paths he could take. He felt he was on the opposite side of Gideon's warning about moving so far ahead that you lost flexibility. Yet it was an area just as restrictive. Spencer was self-analyzing all he'd done, and said, and how he'd looked throughout the session. He rated each new, possible response for consistency. Whatever front he presented to Lewis, it absolutely _had_ to be consistent.

It wasn't easy. The more Lewis revealed of his plan, the harder Reid found it to play along. He was anxious to hear Morgan's take on his performance.

With relief, he realized the inmate was winding things up.

"It's been a pleasure talking to you, Dr. Reid." He executed a slow, sly wink. "I hope we can do it again soon."

"We will. But you realize I'll need some time to pull things together on my end?" _Good. Confident, but not brash; not challenging his superiority._

"Time?" Lewis raised his brows and scanned the entire room. "I've got nothing _but_ time here. Just make sure you do it right."

Peter's grin as the guard ushered him out into the hallway didn't tell Reid much. It could be a sign of anticipation for Hotch's torment…or triumph at having roped another hapless FBI agent into his weird circus of sick. The longer Reid was with the prisoner, the more unsure he was about whether or not he himself was being played.

He wouldn't put it past Lewis to dupe him into becoming a weapon against Hotch just for the fun of it.

_The best you can do is discuss everything with the others. We'll figure it out. Somehow._

But in his mind, Spencer sounded unsure…even to himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi had alerted J.J. that they might be working without the male half of the team for a few days.

"But if a case comes up, you know we'll be there. Just hold down the fort in the meantime, okay?"

"Sure, Rossi." J.J. sounded weary. "Whatever you guys have to do to get Hotch free…" After a pause, she lowered her voice. "He _will_ get free…won't he?"

Something in her tone made easy words that downplayed the situation stick in Dave's throat. J.J. deserved honesty. They all did.

But Rossi couldn't speak his doubts and fears while Hotch was within hearing distance. He closed his eyes. "See you soon. Call if you need us. Bye."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan and Reid sat in their car in the Garrett County jail parking lot and stared at each other.

Both shook their heads in small, incessant denial.

"That dude really is a full load of bat-crap crazy. He really is. I mean…maaaaan..." Derek's voice faded. The continual head-shake remained.

"Yeah, but at least we know what's coming."

"What good is that? Rat-Face said he'd know if you warned Hotch. Doesn't do any good for the rest of us to know, if Bossman doesn't."

Reid closed his eyes, rubbing them with long, tapered fingers as though he could obliterate the visions Lewis's instructions had put into his mind. When he stopped, he took a deep, somewhat shaky breath, but he sounded calmer. "Let's go home. We need to talk to Rossi and see what he thinks. He knows Hotch better than anyone. I wanna hear what he has to say before doing anything else."

"Right." Morgan turned the key in the ignition, revving the engine to life. He cast a sidelong glance at the young genius. "Just so you know, I think you did good in there, Pretty Boy. Real good. Hotch'd be proud."

Reid was too worried to fully appreciate the compliment. He slid down in his seat, looking morose. "Kinda wish Hotch _had_ been in there after all. It's gonna be really hard to make him go away so we can all talk about him. He'll hate that."

"Not as much as he'd hate getting another special door-to-door delivery from Rat-Face."

Spencer expelled air in a derisive half-snort. "Yeah…this time it'll be me instead of FedEx. Great."

They drove back to Quantico in silence.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was a look they rarely saw as a team.

Hotch stared at them with round, tragic eyes. There was something lost and waifish about him. And not just because of his dealings with Peter Lewis.

Sometimes help was the hardest thing to take.

They'd asked him to go away. To leave them alone to discuss his fate. Him. Their leader. He didn't feel like much of a leader anymore. And the pity in their eyes. It struck deep into his ego. He searched each face, hoping for…something. He wasn't sure what.

"C'mon, Aaron." Rossi stepped away from Morgan and Reid, making it seem a little less like an 'us against him' situation. "C'mon…"

The older man took Hotch's good arm in a gentle, but firm, grip, steering him toward Jack's room at the very back of the apartment. "It's just for a little while. Just until Reid fills me in. Everything'll be fine…everything'll be okay."

The soothing cadence of Dave's voice didn't fool Hotch. All it did was send his mind leaping off into a place where every horrible, hidden, shameful thing he kept to himself hovered, taunting him.

_We're the things Peter Lewis knows about you…the things he dug out of you…the things you hate…the things he's telling your team…We're the things the knowledge of which will rob you of your leadership, your relationships, your friendships…**all** the ships…In fact, we'll just sh-sh-sh-ship you off!…Bye-bye, Aaron!..._ It didn't help that it was all in the thin, sibilant, serpentine voice of Peter Lewis.

But Rossi was saying something. Hotch pulled himself back. He'd better pay attention.

"Trust me, Aaron. I'll hear what they have to say and I'll decide if we can bring you into it." He studied the distracted look that had settled over his best friend and knew it meant the Unit Chief was revisiting all the doubts a rough childhood and a life laced with painful events had bequeathed him.

With a deep sigh, he pulled Hotch into a semi-hug, avoiding the injury that wasn't getting the rest it needed. Rossi placed a hand on the back of Aaron's neck, encouraging his head down to rest against the older man's shoulder. "Trust me. Be good. Don't listen in. In fact…" Dave released Hotch and leaned over, turning on a clock-radio perched on the nightstand. "…listen to some music, or news, or whatever. And I'll be back soon."

He pushed unresisting Aaron down, making him sit on Jack's bed. Crossing the room, Rossi glanced back once before closing the door, and making sure the latch engaged.

Hotch hadn't moved. He was staring at the floor, looking confused and scared.

Dave hurried back to where the others waited. The faster Reid could define the situation…the better.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Despite knowing Hotch wouldn't eavesdrop as a matter of honor, the agents kept their voices low.

"That's weird." Rossi sat back, a grimace of distaste making him look sour.

"That's Rat-Face."

"Actually, it's not so weird once you think about it." Reid took a deep breath. It helped calm him when he had ugly things to say. "He wants me to make it look like we're trying to get Hotch's mind off things. I'm supposed to propose a barbeque…you know, a family kind of thing so Jack and everyone's kids'll be there."

"So there'll be an impressionable audience to witness Hotch's reaction…to make him feel that much worse when he realizes it."

"Right." Reid nodded. "And I'm the one who'll bring the main course. Raw hamburger in an airtight container, so when Hotch opens it…the scent'll be powerful, and right under his nose…"

Morgan swallowed. "Raw, ground meat smells like…like carnage." He looked at Rossi. "You were there. When I had to pull Bossman off Foyet…I'll never forget…" He swallowed again. "He'd already broken through the skull. He wouldn't stop. He was still hitting…dipping his fists in and out of that bloody, pulpy mess. And the smell…I'll never forget…"

Dave bent his head, rubbing a hand over his brow. "When Lewis had Hotch under, he must have said something about that. It's one of the highlights of horror in the guy's life, so he must've said something."

"And it ties in to the theme of setting triggers connected to the senses," Reid murmured. "But because he said this was the finale, I'm thinking it's the last one. Smell and taste are closely related. This must be the last anchor he set in Hotch. I hope so, anyway."

"His voice got Bossman on the hearing…the color red got him on sight…"

"And the toy guns hit him on the tactile level," Rossi continued Morgan's list of the damage Aaron had suffered at the hands and mind of Peter Lewis.

"And I have to do this…set off this trigger…in front of everyone, and record it as proof, so Lewis'll trust me and teach me."

Derek's voice sounded gritty with anger. "But if this is the last one, why can't we just tell Hotch and be done with it?"

"Because we're not sure. The only way to _be_ sure is for that bastard to tell Reid either that it really _is_ the last trigger…or to give the kid enough knowledge to go into Hotch's mind and disarm anything else there." Rossi sighed. "Either way, Reid has to earn Lewis's trust."

"And he said he'd be able to tell if Hotch was faking it." Spencer's voice trembled. He hated thinking he'd be torturing his leader when all he'd ever wanted was to help him.

"Damn."

"And…and Jack has to see his father…you know…" Reid could barely choke the words out.

For a moment, the silence in the apartment was oppressive. Then…

…Morgan slammed his fist down on the table around which they'd gathered for this war council. "No! No, Jack doesn't have to see anything!" He leaned in, eager. "Rat-Face might be able to tell if Hotch is faking his reaction, but he won't be able to tell if whatever's on Reid's phone has been…you know…_altered_." His eyes lit with triumph. "And my Baby Girl can work digital magic like Lewis has never seen. I _know_ she can."

The agents glanced at each other, seeking confirmation…or at least hope. Tentative smiles began to surface.

"But we still have to put Hotch through hell. There's no way around that." Reid bent his head, sorrowful after the brief touch of optimism.

But Rossi's smile only grew wider. And wider. It began to look diabolical.

"Kid…go get your meat and your airtight canister. I have an idea…"


	65. Antidote?

Rossi took charge.

After sending Reid off to procure an airtight container and several pounds of raw hamburger, he gave his house keys to Morgan, along with instructions.

"There's a grill on the patio. Get it set up. Utensils are in the kitchen cupboard over the refrigerator. Briquettes and gas are in the garage…far left." Dave paused, eyes narrowing. "And let's keep Mudge out of this. I don't want Lewis to know I have a dog. Wouldn't put it past him to send poison biscuits over."

Morgan blanched. "Didn't think of that. I was gonna bring Clooney over to make it look more like a family gathering. But I guess _that's_ not gonna happen."

"Better safe than sorry." Rossi took a deep breath, looking toward Jack's room. "Get everything ready. I wanna talk to Hotch, but we'll be right behind you."

Derek hesitated at the door. "You gonna tell Bossman?"

"What?" Dave's mind was already elsewhere. He blinked himself back from thoughts of his best friend. "Oh…no. I'll only tell him what I can, but…no…I won't risk the element of surprise."

"Poor guy. Scent is one of the most powerful triggers to memory."

"Don't worry. I think I can help him through without defusing it. Now…Go…Get set up. And talk to Garcia. Fill her in on how we'll need Reid's recording doctored."

Rossi headed toward the room where Hotch was waiting, injured and scared and alone.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The Unit Chief hadn't moved.

Sitting on the edge of Jack's bed, head hanging; it was clear to Rossi that Lewis might be winning this battle without even playing his next hand. Hotch's eyes flickered, but he continued to contemplate the space between his feet.

"Aaron? How're you feeling?"

The dark head did a slow, single shake. "Not good." His shoulders heaved with a great sigh, dredging up the energy to ask… "Is Reid okay?"

"He's fine. He'll be better when this is all over."

"What did you guys talk about?"

Rossi took a seat beside the younger man. "About you, but you already knew that." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. From that angle he had a better view of Hotch's face. "I'll tell you what I can, but full disclosure will have to wait until…" He took a deep breath. "…until we pull the next trigger."

Hotch's eyes closed. A full-bodied shudder rippled through him. "Oh, God. What is it? Do you know?"

"I do. I can't tell you."

At last, Aaron raised his head, looking Rossi straight in the eye. "Why not? It'll disarm it, right? If you tell me?"

"Honestly, I don't know. We already know you can't figure out what'll set you off. It's like a built-in failsafe device. It seems firing the trigger disarms it, but takes a toll on you, as you well know."

"Then tell me. Let's see if it works." Now Rossi was the one contemplating his feet. "Dave!"

"I can't, Aaron. The only way to be sure you're free, once and for all, is for Lewis to let Reid in on what he did to you; on his methods. And the only way for Reid to get that inside information is to _prove_ himself to Lewis. And the only way to do that is to…"

"…finish me off…"

"Well, I don't think it'll come to that." The faint current of humor in Rossi's voice made Hotch stare.

"I don't understand."

"You will. But first, tell me…" Dave reared his neck back, eyes scanning the shoulder sling covering a good portion of the Unit Chief's torso. "…have you taken any of those pain meds today?"

Hotch's exasperated sigh answered before his words did. "I think there are bigger things to worry about." He glared at Rossi; realized the older man was waiting for a definite answer. "No. I did not take any medication today. Why does it even matter?"

Dave's diabolical grin made another appearance. He draped a careful arm across Hotch's shoulders. "It matters because…Aaron, my boy, I'm about to get you drunker than you've ever been in your entire life."

XXXXXXXXXX

"You sure about this?"

Morgan watched Rossi fill a glass with 120-year-old Scotch. It wasn't just any glass. It was a tall one intended for water…or milk…or a soft drink. Fully capable of holding 12 ounces of liquid.

"Hey…guy's gonna have a hell of a hangover. Least I can do is make sure he enjoys getting there."

"No. I mean, are you sure getting Hotch drunk'll work?"

"The reasoning's sound." Reid blinked at the amount of liquor.

"It'll have a blunting effect on the nervous system. And…" His eyes gleamed with a sly light. "…Lewis put conditions on me, on the venue, on how this was supposed to go down…the only thing he _didn't_ put a condition on was Hotch himself. And I don't think he'll realize he was outsmarted. His first reaction will be to assume I'm so stupid in comparison, that I needed everything spelled out. In fact, when I plead ignorance about the effect of alcohol on triggers, it'll be added incentive that I _need_ to be his student. And!...having Hotch drunk will fit right in with what I've been telling Lewis…that Hotch's finished; that he can't function because he's been so damaged. The only release he has is…" Reid raised his brows at the brimming glass. "…getting drunk at every opportunity."

Rossi capped the antique bottle with a regretful sigh. He'd purchased it at auction and felt there hadn't yet been an occasion of sufficient importance to merit opening it. After gazing at the large drinking glass filled with amber liquid, he smiled. "If this works, we'll use what's left for a toast. To Hotch."

Morgan gave his head a rueful shake. "Let's hold a little of it back. Bossman's gonna need a hair of the dog tomorrow morning."

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Here. Get started."

Rossi pressed the full glass into Hotch's hand.

The Unit Chief's eyes widened. He looked up at his teammates, shadows of concern in the deep, brown depths.

They'd seated him on Dave's patio in one of the wicker lawn chairs Morgan had spread around, making the backyard look like the setting for a casual, outdoor gathering. The grill was ready and waiting.

Garcia had assured Morgan that she could doctor whatever Reid sent her with appropriate sound effects of…and here she'd gulped…children screaming and adults crying out in alarm. She'd also found some old footage of a company picnic and a soccer game which she thought might give her something to work with.

Spencer didn't need to give her much. After all, he wouldn't be walking around with his phone the entire time. Logically, he would train it on Hotch when he presented the canister of hamburger.

They had it all planned.

The only one in the dark was Aaron.

And, as he stared at the reservoir of Scotch in his hand, and the watchful eyes of his teammates, he began to feel as if getting a little tipsy wasn't the worst idea at this point.

"Drink, Aaron." Rossi pulled a chair close, determined to keep his best friend company throughout this ordeal.

"I wish I knew what was going to happen…" The Unit Chief gave his colleagues a hopeful look. "…I wish I knew what the trigger was…?"

Dave shook his head. "No. You really don't. Trust me. Now…drink."

Hotch licked his lips, took a deep breath…and began…


	66. Bang

Rossi, Reid and Morgan learned some things about their boss.

First, Hotch was a lightweight when it came to drinking. When all was said and done, the man didn't have all that much meat on his bones. And ever since his ill-fated, first encounter with Peter Lewis, the Unit Chief had been at less than his best physically. His appetite had been off. His sleep had been sporadic.

He was swaying where he sat within the hour.

The second thing his teammates noticed was that Hotch was not a mean drunk. He was a very shy, sad, apologetic drunk. He huddled in his chair making a determined effort to work his way through the king-sized portion of excellent Scotch he might have enjoyed under other circumstances. When his inhibitions had lowered and he realized he was under scrutiny, he turned a rare, unguarded gaze on his companions.

" 'M s-sorry, guys. 'M really messed up."

The other three exchanged glances. Rossi and Morgan looked mildly amused, and maybe not averse to taking advantage of their boss with some gentle ribbing. But Reid's lips quivered. He hated seeing Hotch like this. And he couldn't get the upcoming trigger, its pulling and its documentation, out of his thoughts.

So when Derek gave their leader's increasingly unruly hair an affectionate ruffle, and said, " 'S okay, Bossman. 'Cause you're gonna be so much _more_ messed up before we're done." …Spencer couldn't take it.

"Stop it, Morgan. Leave him alone."

Hotch blinked up at his youngest agent, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment to reset their focus. "Don' wanna be alone."

"There! See, Pretty Boy? He's okay with it. In fact, I bet he's not feeling any pain at all about now. How's the shoulder, Hotch?"

"Morgan!" The genuine emotion in Reid's voice caught their attention.

Watching the byplay, Rossi had been about to suggest they move on with their plan; he thought Aaron was ready. But when Hotch rose to the occasion, he realized they still had a ways to go before the man was sufficiently numb.

" 'S okay, Reid." Hotch attempted to stand. He wouldn't have managed it if Derek hadn't caught him under his good arm, pulling him up and steadying him simultaneously. The Unit Chief turned to face the young doctor. "You guys 'r goin' through a lot f'r me. Morgan wants t' play wif m' hair…he can." A small, wry smile touched Aaron's Scotch-slicked lips. " 'Sides…he doesn' have any 'f his own."

Derek couldn't suppress a belly-laugh. He shook with mirth, but it was cut short when Hotch tottered to one side…thrown off balance by the change in Morgan's hold on him, as well as the asymmetry of his damaged shoulder. He threw his good arm wide in an attempt to regain his equilibrium.

"Whoa…" Derek slipped an arm around Hotch's waist, easing him back down into his chair. "Take it easy, man."

Aaron swayed, gazed up at the beefy agent looming over him with a concerned look and felt the need to explain. " 'S grav'ty. Too much grav'ty."

Morgan gave him a consoling pat. "I know, man…I know. Gravity's taken me down a coupla times, too."

At that, even Reid had to press his lips together to keep from smiling at his leader's expense.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Gravity and Scotch conspired against Hotch over the next hour.

At last, his teammates came to a consensus: their Unit Chief was ready for the next step.

All of Reid's anxiety 'tells' ramped up. His lips would be sore for days afterwards with the amount of gnawing he was inflicting on them. He stammered and fidgeted.

Again, it was Rossi who took control, turning to Spencer first.

"Start recording, kid. Garcia can edit out whatever doesn't ring true, but we're gonna start playing Lewis's game now." He motioned Morgan closer. "Go get the canister of meat out of the fridge. Remember…you and I don't know what's going on. Only Reid's got the inside track on this."

Morgan hurried indoors while Spencer fumbled with his phone, moving back and training it on the area around the grill.

Rossi's voice came through, sounding _sotto voce_, but a little disgusted. "Aaron, I've asked you not to drink so much. For God's sake, there are kids here. And all your teammates."

Genuinely confused, Hotch gazed up at his friend. "S-sorry?" They had wanted him to do this, hadn't they? Did he get it wrong?

Dave's exasperated sigh followed. "At least eat something. Man drinks like that without food in his belly…" He shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished and looking the very picture of disappointment.

Morgan appeared, toting a large, cylindrical container. He set it down on a small table beside the grill, looking toward the camera as he gave Reid a puzzled look. "What's with the weird box, kid? Plain packaging not good enough?"

"Uh…I…uh…" Spencer hadn't expected to have a speaking role. It took him a minute to realize it would have seemed suspicious, if he'd been silent throughout the charade. "It keeps stuff fresher."

Morgan shrugged. "Whatever." He poked at the briquettes in the grill. Seeming satisfied, he glanced around. "Any volunteers to play chef?"

"Hotch'll do it." Rossi's voice rose…then lowered as he addressed the Unit Chief in a more private tone. "Make yourself useful, Aaron. At least flipping burgers'll get the drink out of your hand." He pulled the younger man from his seat, escorting him to the grill.

Once Hotch was swaying before the glowing coals, Dave's attention was drawn to one side. Again, he spoke at increased volume. "I know you're hungry, Jack. Your Dad's gettin' the burgers started. Won't be long."

Hotch stared at the container. He didn't understand what he was supposed to do. When it finally dawned on him, he scrabbled ineffectually at the airtight lid.

Out of camera range, the others realized their leader couldn't manage with one arm incapacitated. Morgan moved first, sauntering into view as he took up a position at Hotch's side. He grinned. "Problem, Bossman?"

The Unit Chief's drunken focus was entirely for the task before him. "Can' open…can'…"

"Lemme give you a hand, Bossman."

If Derek's voice sounded uncommonly gentle…if it cracked a little as he helped pull the trigger Peter Lewis had installed in the mind of a man he had vowed to protect with his own life…it didn't matter.

Garcia would fix it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch was having trouble grasping things. Physically as well as mentally.

His brain wouldn't function. Instead of assembling pieces of puzzles and taking an active role, it languished on the sidelines. An observer. Not a participant.

At least, that's how it felt. As though there were a barrier between him and the rest of the world, muffling everything.

He was supposed to do something…expect something. He couldn't remember what.

And then Morgan loosened the lid of the strange container…

"There ya go, Bossman. She's all yours."

…and stepped back…

…and Hotch worked at prying the thing open…

…and he felt a moment's satisfaction when he succeeded…

…and then…

…and then...

XXXXXXXXXXX

Reid's hand was shaking, but he supposed that was okay. It fit the situation. Lewis would enjoy the secondary impact. Wasn't that why he'd wanted children and family to be present for this?

He continued to record.

Morgan and Rossi watched their Unit Chief prize the lid of the container open. Hotch wasn't swaying anymore. He stood stock still, staring at the contents, inhaling the sudden odor of blood and torn flesh.

It was when his bottom lip began to quiver that Derek frowned. He'd seen that before.

It was when Hotch sank to his knees, sobbing, that Morgan realized his error. _Not Foyet! I fastened on him, because that was the goriest, most disturbing image to __**me**__. But it wasn't to Hotch! Not Foyet! _

There had been another room filled with the stench of death that day.

Aaron raised his face to the blank, blue sky and screamed his grief as fresh as when it first happened... "_HA-A-A-A-A-L-E-E-E-E-EY_…"

Garcia wouldn't need to change a thing.


	67. Vengeance

Hotch's teammates sprinted toward him.

There was something Morgan wanted to do; had always regretted _not_ doing the first time around, but hadn't felt it appropriate then. Now was different. The Unit Chief wasn't clasping a beloved corpse to his chest.

Derek reached him first, and scooped him into a strong-armed hug. He gave no thought to the injured shoulder. He was ministering to a far deeper wound.

Aaron sobbed as though his heart would break. Limp and damp and drunk, he cried his anger at fate for robbing Jack of his mother…he cried his fear of being alone; his terror of ruining everything without Haley's touch to guide him…he cried his hate for the man who'd murdered the woman he'd loved…and a little of that hate boomeranged back on him for being unable to save her…for being too late, too late, too late…

"Too late…too late…I'm sorry, Hotch…we were too late…" Morgan rocked his leader, pulling him close as though proximity could make a difference in the passage of time. As though time itself would take pity on the man it had broken and rewind his damage.

"Morgan…" Rossi's voice was an oasis of calm; steady and even and repetitive. "Morgan…Morgan…" He finally gained attention by light, backhanded taps against Derek's shoulder. "Morgan, he's out. Hotch passed out. It's over."

Derek remembered saying those same words… 'It's over'…years ago when he'd pried Hotch away from Foyet's body, thinking he was offering comfort. Now he saw the words for the liars they were.

It would never be 'over.' Not for Hotch.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hoe-lee _crap_, Rossi! If that's what it was like while he was deadened by the booze, what the hell would have happened if we'd let him go in stone cold sober?!"

Morgan stood, arms crossed, brows raised, shaking his head.

They'd brought an unconscious Hotch into Dave's study, laying him out on a long, leather couch. After a quick check of vitals, reassuring themselves that it was emotional shock and a deep, drunken sleep that had claimed the man, they stood looking down at him, taking time to recover and regain their own footing.

"I don't know. I just don't know. That was…" Rossi felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. "…_intense_. Did you get it all, kid?"

Reid's eyes were blinking in rapid flurries; a sign that he was struggling to keep tears at bay. He seemed unable to look away from his boss's still form. His voice creaked when he spoke. "You think he'll thank us for this? For…for putting him through this?"

Rossi's sigh was deep. "Maybe we'll get lucky; maybe he won't remember."

"But it's still in him. That kind of pain. What if we brought it to the fore…made it fresh again? What if he has to go through getting over it all over again? How's he gonna live with that?"

"Same way we all do, kid." Derek moved closer to their fallen leader, taking a seat perched on the large, cushioned arm of the sofa above Hotch's head. He studied the face, so deceptively peaceful. "Keep busy. Make an effort _not_ to think about the bad stuff, and after a while you don't have to remind yourself so much. _Not_ thinking becomes a habit."

"I know that! I've been through it." Reid lost the blinking-battle; a tear made its unapologetic way down his cheek. His speech accelerated, fueled by frustration. "But ignorance is half of the survival skill in situations like that. If I'd known how Maeve would…would…" He gulped. "I never would've…never would've…"

"Don't do that, kid." Rossi's quiet voice reminded them that although Hotch was asleep, they were in the presence of pain's aftermath and consideration should be shown. "Don't discount the time you had with that young lady. She taught you things; broadened your horizons; made you discover a part of yourself you probably never suspected. You can't stop the bad from happening, Reid. But few experiences are pure, unremitting agony. There's some good left in their wake. You _can_ decide to keep that part." He shrugged. "Just my way of getting through things."

The young doctor sniffed back the impulse to cry, shaking his head. "No. I'm sorry, Rossi, but that all sounds like a bunch of stuff about lemons and silver linings and lemonade and how it's better to have loved and lost, blah, blah, blah…That's not good enough." His voice wandered into tearful territory again. "Not good enough. Not for Hotch."

"Pretty Boy…I hear what you're sayin'." Morgan spoke without raising his eyes from contemplating the Unit Chief's quiet repose. "You wanna make things right for Hotch. But it sounds like you need a little revenge, too." He finally looked up. "Am I right?"

Reid bit his lip, reluctant to admit to something so _un_-cerebral. But it was true. "Yeah." Shame threaded its way through the single word. It wasn't how Spencer saw himself. Or wanted to be.

Watching their youngest agent's turmoil, Rossi recalled Aaron's concerns about the effect of putting Reid, with his fragile shields, in close proximity to unsubs. _He's feeling the fallout._ Dave had a twinge of regret. There was precious little innocence in the world as it was. He could understand Hotch's remorse about tampering with the small reservoir of it that lived inside Spencer Reid.

But Morgan was right. And sometimes innocence survived its brushes with evil. And they needed Reid to finish this. Rossi sighed. _I'm gonna feel bad about this, but…_ "Kid, show us what you got on your phone. Let's see how it came out."

Still looking troubled, Spencer palmed his cell and brought up the footage. The other two agents gathered close, peering at the tiny screen.

It was even worse the second time around. Like a carnival of cruelty.

Instead of watching the images flitting across Reid's phone, Dave focused on the young genius's expressive features. And didn't like himself very much. He knew reviewing how Hotch's heart broke would harden Spencer's.

He was right.

When the recording ended with the scream of a man in Hell, Reid's tears had dried.

He raised his head…slowly…and looked at his teammates…dead-eyed; accepting of his desire for vengeance on Hotch's behalf.

"I'm going to destroy Peter Lewis."

Neither Morgan nor Rossi doubted him.


	68. The Lure of Digital Magic

Hotch thought the pulsing that jarred his entire body might mean he was on…a vehicle of some sort?...a truck traversing an uncommonly rough road?... maybe a train?

He couldn't remember how he got wherever he was. He felt…terrible. The last grey vestiges of confused slumber dropped away and then…he felt even worse.

The rhythmic pounding wasn't wheels slamming against steel tracks. It was inside his head. The realization fleshed the sensation out with excruciating, nauseating pain. His eyes felt gritty; his throat dry. His shoulder injury added an underlying beat of its own, contributing to his agony. He groaned, but it came out as more of a whimper.

Then, he gasped and blessed all the gods and powers that watched over, and sometimes took pity on, damaged FBI agents when a cool, damp cloth was placed against his forehead.

"Take it easy, Aaron. You've had a rough time." Rossi's voice was soft, but it echoed to thunderous effect inside Hotch's skull.

His second groan came out sounding more respectable than the mouse-noise of the first one. Still, speech was only a distant possibility; more sounds of pain were lined up, waiting their turn. Mercifully, Dave kept quiet. Hotch assumed it was because the pain pulsing through his veins like a drum was audible to anyone in the same room. It would drown Rossi out. He would have to shout above it.

Three changes of cool compress, two groans, and one moan later, the Unit Chief tried to open his eyes. He was glad the room was darkened, but very disturbed by the way the ceiling over his nose was doing a slow, rolling spin. He added another moan to his tally and retreated behind lowered lids.

Rossi's voice intruded along with a hand that slipped behind Hotch's head, raising it a few inches. "I know it's tough, but try to get a few sips of this down. J.J.'s Will sent it over. Says alcohol's more of a lifestyle in New Orleans. This is his favorite form of damage control."

Hotch wanted to tell his friend that, for now, his throat muscles would only allow things to move upward, not downward, but his brain couldn't find the connection that would convert thought to speech. He felt helpless.

_Like when I couldn't move until Peter Lewis said I could…until he gave me permiss…_

Aaron's eyes shot open; the surge of adrenalin at the thought of his ordeal with Lewis burned through his foggy perceptions faster than any potion from the Big Easy ever could.

"That's a good boy. Just a few sips…" Unaware of Hotch's internal processing, Rossi continued his efforts to coax the elixir-to-battle-all-hangovers into the younger man.

Aaron choked on the few drops that made it past his lips. If it accomplished nothing else, the mixture empowered his speech center.

"God, Dave!" Hotch coughed, feeling the resulting painful vibrations travel to the top of his skull. "What _is_ that!?"

"Not sure." Rossi surveyed the small glass of dark liquid. "Smells kind of like Worcestershire sauce."

"Well, get it away from me!"

Dave complied, a smile flickering into view. He continued to support Hotch, one hand on his upper back, until the choking fit passed. Then he eased the panting man back down to a reclining position and inspected his haggard features.

"You look like hell."

"Yeah…well…I just got back," Hotch closed his eyes. He'd been able to ignore his pain for a moment while panic raced through him, but now it returned, pounding in time to his heartbeat.

After nearly a minute of silence, Rossi's voice became tentative and gentle. "Do you remember much?"

"Of hell? Sure. Lewis was there, and…" Sounding weak and thready, Hotch paused. Something was trying to surface in his mind. Something important. Something important and really, really bad. He shook his head, not wanting to see whatever it was more clearly. The motion set off fireworks behind his eyes. He could feel Dave watching him.

It struck at Rossi's core when Aaron's small, defenseless voice whispered…

… "I don't want to remember. Please, don't make me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid wasn't sure what he was going to do.

Feelings of anger and vengeance weren't entirely alien to him, but they were things he'd kept bottled up for most of his life.

It had begun with the schoolyard bullies. Spindly Spencer hadn't been able to fight back physically. He'd waxed philosophical in his own defense. Things would be different one day. All he had to do was stick it out. To that end, his beautiful mind had come in handy. Diverting himself in the educational system by acquiring doctorate after doctorate had let him move through the meanness all around him. But not entirely unscathed.

Spencer Reid was most definitely scathed.

Along the way he'd learned the art of being meek. He'd also learned that he was more willing to fight for someone he loved than for himself. He supposed his teammates would have something to say about that. Things that touched on issues of self-esteem and co-dependency.

Didn't matter.

They could talk at him all they wanted. Once Reid's mind was set on a course, he followed it from inception to outcome. If it led to something he truly desired, nothing would stop him. If the journey was for someone else's benefit, it didn't make any difference. The people he loved were too few and far between for him to think of them as anything less than precious treasure.

And Hotch was a very _special_ precious treasure to Reid.

After viewing the recording on his phone that second time, the young doctor had lingered at Rossi's, reluctant to abandon his Unit Chief. When it became clear that Hotch wasn't going to wake up for a while, Morgan had been the first to leave, saying he needed to tend to Clooney.

It had made Spencer sad to think he didn't have anyone or anything waiting at home, demanding his care. He sent the recording of Hotch's trauma to Garcia, setting up a time when he could look over her shoulder as she worked her magic.

As he was discussing it with her, Reid couldn't get the echoes of Aaron's scream out of his mind. He began to wonder if it would be possible to produce a second little drama.

One especially for Peter Lewis.


	69. Sage

"This…this is…just…just _awful_! You want me to make it even _worse_?"

Garcia's large, doleful eyes looked up at Reid, uncomprehending. "You want me to add in sounds of children playing and…and…stuff…?"

"And screaming." Spencer blinked and chewed his lips. "I'm sorry, but it needs to look like everyone's having a good time and then…"

"And then Jack sees his father…fall…and…and hears him scream…I know. It's not real, but still…" The tech analyst wiped at her glasses.

The lenses had fogged from the heat of unshed tears gathering in her eyes. When she'd wiped them away, she looked at Reid with the deepest kind of anger of which she was capable: outrage at cruelty inflicted on the innocent. "And h-he wanted _everyone_ to see this?! For real !?"

Tight-lipped, Spencer nodded.

Garcia returned her regard to the monitor before her and the frozen image of Hotch on his knees, doubled over in grief. "I mean…I know you said that God-awful snake messed with White Knight's mind, but…but…" Lashes trembling with the effort to control her big, empathic heart, Penelope gazed back up into Reid's eyes, finding there an echo of her own sorrow. "I hate him. I do. And that's not who I am."

Her voice was so small and pained, Spencer felt a rush of guilt for making her an accomplice in the ugly business of Peter Lewis. But Garcia was a powerful ally, and with her passions engaged, she was capable of marvels on a technical level that matched Reid's on an intellectual one. He needed her. Hotch needed her.

"I'm sorry." He inhaled a sharp breath. "I know how you feel. Of all the unsubs we've had, this is the one I want to get back at. And that's not who I am either."

"So why is this one different? He's not the only one to hurt Mon Capitan. More importantly…" She sniffled. "…why are _we_ different?"

Reid knew it wasn't a rhetorical question. Garcia was asking him to access his professional skills and apply them to the situation. He took a moment to think, staring at the agonized image of his leader. The tension in his shoulders lessened as he realized…

"I don't think we're doing this _against_ Lewis so much as we're doing it _for_ Hotch."

"You think?" She sounded hopeful. Penelope would prefer to protect her self-image as a colorful burst of joy. Losing it would be like granting Lewis another victim.

"I do. I don't hate the unsub as much as I hate the crime, you know?" Even as he said it to reassure his teammate, Reid's mind was shooting off on tangents like a splintered bolt of lightning. He wanted to obliterate Lewis so that his Unit Chief could see the man lying useless and helpless, clawless and toothless… He wanted Hotch to be able to turn his back on something that could never hurt him, or anyone else, ever again. It had been easier to move past Foyet: he'd died and taken his potential for future threat to the grave.

Not so Lewis.

A chill ghosted up Reid's spine, shivering to a stop at the nape of his neck. _I know Lewis wanted to die. If that's changed, it's because his sole reason for staying alive is torturing Hotch._ The thought of Aaron's agony being the whole point of a twisted genius's existence turned Spencer's stomach.

He gulped back a sudden rush of bile. _Maybe I don't want to obliterate the guy. Maybe I want to render him pathetic in Hotch's eyes. Yeah…that sounds better. Makes me feel better about my role in this, too._

He tried to ignore that he also wanted to rub Lewis's nose in his own ineffectuality. _Life in prison will be hell for him and his ego as it is. Life with the knowledge that he's about as important as a dust mite…_Reid's lips twitched with a gloating grin, suppressed for Garcia's sake.

"Are you gonna be okay adding in the stuff we need to make it look like Hotch lost it in front of everyone?"

Penelope pressed her brilliantly ruby lips into a determined line. "If it'll help Sir, then yes. I'll do it for him. But…"

"What?"

"When I'm done, you look at it alone. Don't let Hotch see it, okay?"

Reid nodded. A request like that from the doyen of digital, who loved parading her talent as much as her wardrobe, could only mean that Garcia was going to use everything in her arsenal to bring down Lewis. It would be ugly. It would be real.

Her fingers began their keyboard dance. Eyes fixed on her monitor, she issued a gentle dismissal to her teammate. "I'll send you the finished product, but you should probably go now."

"Okay." Reid backed away, mind still flashing on a multitude of trajectories connected to Peter Lewis. "Thanks, Garcia." Roving over her quixotic workplace décor, his eye fell on a thick twist of fibers, charred at one end, resting in a small, carved stone bowl. _Sage…_

"Can I have this?" His tapered fingers hovered over the dusty-looking rope of herbs.

Penelope's eyes shot a quick sidelong glance toward the object of his interest. "Sure. Why would you..." She stopped typing, turning to give the young genius her steady regard. "Hotch came and got some when you guys were investigating Lewis…"

Reid nodded. _Maybe Mr. Lewis's demon is going to scratch its way back into his life. Maybe his customized hallucination will be his new cellmate._ "Yeah. Can I have it?"

The doctor and the tech analyst searched each other's eyes. Garcia broke away and resumed typing.

"Take it. And if you need more…just let me know."


	70. And the Oscar for Editing Goes To---

"Morgan, I need you to do something for me." Reid rolled the smudge stick Garcia had let him take, sniffing the dry fragrance as he talked on his cell.

"Sure, kid. Name it."

"I'd do it myself, but if it gets back to Lewis, I don't want to be connected to it…"

XXXXXXXXXX

Jerry Swanson felt as though he'd bought a ticket to a roller coaster when he'd signed on to be Peter Lewis's legal counsel.

He didn't like the feeling. Not at all, at all, at all.

First, he'd risen to the pinnacle, reaching toward his dream to become one of the lawyer-glitterati he so envied, splashed across headlines, looking stern and knowledgeable; men in control of their fate as well as that of others.

Then, he experienced the stomach-dropping plunge to the depths of fear and anxiety when his client had turned the tables on him. From the dream of eminence to the dread of being exposed for the underhanded player he was, which could get him disbarred. From glitter to gutter in one fell swoop.

And now, just when he was coming to terms with his fall and could sleep at night without worry nibbling away the hours until dawn, here came another twist in the ride, standing at his door, looking thug-tough and flashing a badge.

"Derek Morgan, FBI. I need access to Peter Lewis's effects."

Jerry had assigned power-of-attorney to himself when it became clear his client would never walk free, had no friends or family to handle the matter of possessions for him, and didn't care. Prudent when it came to collecting his fee, the lawyer had put everything in storage. If needed, the legal system would auction items off or even sell the entire storage unit to the highest bidder.

When Jerry had thought Lewis and he were on the same page, he'd culled the man's belongings for anything incriminating. He'd wanted to dispose of several canisters of unknown substances, but thought better of it. Drug use could dovetail nicely with a temporary insanity plea.

The wheels of the law were slow, but Jerry knew at some point a cop or two would come sniffing around for evidence. He snorted. _As though any more is needed to accomplish conviction!_

"Warrant?" It was an automatic response.

Shaking his head, Morgan smiled. "Do we really need to go through that bird-dance, Mr. Swanson?"

Jerry heaved a weighty sigh. "No. I guess not. But if you tell me what you're looking for I could save you some time. I was pretty thorough when I went through everything."

"Wish I could, but it's one of those I'll-know-it-if-I-see-it things. This is just standard follow-up for a case involving the BAU. You know…looking for anything that can help us with profiling Lewis's type in the future." Derek was a smooth liar.

The attorney grunted. "That guy's one-of-a-kind, Agent."

Morgan shrugged. "Like I said: standard procedure."

"Suit yourself…" Jerry handed over an address and one of the duplicate keys to the storage site after obtaining the agent's assurance that he'd bring the key back as soon as he was done 'taking inventory.'

It all sounded like a bunch of psycho-babble to Jerry. In his opinion, if behavioral analysis had any merit, Peter Lewis would have been weeded out long before he'd become a serial killer.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Here ya go, kid." Morgan dropped the storage unit key onto Reid's eager palm. "I'll bring it back when you're done."

"Thanks. I hope it won't take too long."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The young doctor was grateful to whoever had packed Lewis's belongings.

They'd labeled things with nice, neat, block letters. There was even some logic to how boxes were stacked. In retrospect, Reid supposed the inmate's lawyer was responsible for this kind of organization. If something was needed to corroborate a statement or refute the prosecution, it would be easy to unearth.

It was equally easy for him to find what he wanted.

Lewis's father had died in prison, awaiting trial. It was a tragic catalyst that had helped fuel his genius son's descent into murder. Peter had kept his parents close; constant reminders of the wrongs he'd wanted to avenge. At least, that's what Reid was counting on in his private profile of the killer.

He wasn't disappointed.

A scrapbook and several framed photos of Lewis's parents accompanied Spencer when he left.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi didn't have the heart to press Hotch about what he recalled of his drunken bout with yet another of Peter Lewis's triggers.

Instead, he opted to sit beside his friend, supplying cool compresses, aspirin, and sympathy.

"I called Jessica. She's fine with keeping Jack a while longer." Dave smoothed some stray locks of soot-dark hair back from Hotch's forehead. The lines of pain on the younger man's face were easing as the effects of alcohol ebbed. Rossi didn't expect a full recovery, though, for at least a day. _And he'll probably be repelled by liquor in general and Scotch in particular for quite a while._

"Is there anything I can get you? Besides water?" But Hotch's mind wasn't on his physical welfare.

"No, thanks. Dave…what happens next?"

"Well…next we try to get some food into you…nothing too demanding…nice, bland sustenance at first…maybe oatmeal…or scrambled eggs…"

Hotch lifted one side of the compress draped over his brow and eyes, giving Rossi a sidelong look. "That's not what I meant and you know it. What's next for Reid? For him and Lewis?"

Dave studied his hands, finding his cuticles of sudden interest. "I assume Reid will work his way into Lewis's confidence and find a way to make sure you're okay."

The one, unwavering, dark eye fixing Rossi with a stare blinked. "So Reid got what he needed? He recorded…things?"

Dave nodded. "Yeah."

A few beats of silence passed. "Can I see?"

It was the question Rossi had been both dreading and hoping for. It meant the Unit Chief didn't remember; at least not everything. "I don't think that's a good idea, Aaron."

More silence as Hotch's brain, slowed by the lingering effects of drink, processed his friend's words. He swallowed a small, chilly lump of anxiety. "That bad?"

"It was bad, Aaron. That's all you need to know."

Rossi was relieved when Hotch lowered the edge of the compress, retreating behind its damp darkness.

XXXXXXXXX

Reid hurried.

He returned the storage unit key to Morgan, who in turn brought it back to Jerry Swanson's office. As soon as Spencer had dropped it off, he made his way back to the BAU and Garcia.

Spreading out the photos he'd appropriated, he pored over them, selecting several of Lewis's father.

Garcia cast glances his way, but was still absorbed in altering the recording of what now looked and sounded like a company picnic in Rossi's backyard.

At last, Reid went to look over the tech analyst's shoulder.

"You wanna see?" Penelope's voice was a combination of pride in her work and loathing for what she'd wrought.

"Yeah. It's ready?"

"You tell me…" She brought up the fruit of her labors and leaned to one side, granting Reid a better view of her monitor.

The happy sounds of adults and children playing and generally conversing ran beneath the images. Most of the focus was on Hotch and the area around the wicker furniture and the grill, but at one point it looked as though Reid had swung around, reacting to someone shouting his name and warning him to 'lookout!' In a masterful display of editing, a Frisbee flew into view, landing just short of Reid. It was quickly retrieved by a laughing child. Not Jack, but Lewis would never know that.

It looked as though Reid swung back to focus on Hotch. Rossi's underlying comments concerning Hotch's state of inebriation sounded a little spotty, but their gist was easy to interpret.

Garcia's soft explanation intruded. "I didn't want it to sound like the Italian Stallion meant for you to hear him. In fact, I didn't want it to look like anyone knew your phone was recording."

The drama of Hotch going to the grill and of Morgan helping him open the canister of raw meat looked perfect. Unplanned.

"That was a good touch…Derek asking you about the container. And it gave me the sound level for what comes at the very end." Reid looked puzzled. "Just watch."

Both held their breath at Hotch's scream. The sound of concerned cries was realistic and appropriate. Reid shivered at the wail of a small boy's voice… "Daddeeeeeeee!"…and an adult's terse order to 'get the kids out of here."

But what really made him shiver and hate the fictional Spencer recording a fictional, happy gathering for family and friends…was Garcia's touch at the very end.

The chuckle as Hotch fell, screaming.

It was low, and evil, and undeniably Reid's.


	71. On the Edge of Defeat

When the last image had frozen, Reid inhaled a long, shuddering breath and looked into Garcia's anxious eyes.

"Wha'd'ya think? Was it what you wanted, Boy Wonder? Did I do good?"

He could tell she was conflicted. Excellent work; terrible subject matter.

"It's…it's perfect, Garcia." It was so good, he needed a moment to recover. When he had, he pulled out his phone. In seconds, he'd deleted the original recording, replacing it with the doctored version.

"So you're going to show this to that…that…scummy snake and make him think you hate Hotch?"

Reid nodded. The very thought left a bitter tang in the back of his throat, but he had to take a longer view. "Yeah. Once I get what I want, I'm gonna do something really mean, though. And I don't want too many people to know about it."

"Hey…what happens here, stays here." Garcia blinked glitter-frosted lids. "Just think of me as Vegas East…especially if it's for Fearless Leader."

"Thanks. So, on to the next step." Reid gathered the photos he'd selected of Peter Lewis's father, and laid them before the tech analyst. "It's gonna take a while. I'm thinking of something progressive, but here's what I want you to do…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Food was out of the question. Personal hygiene, however, was not.

Hotch leaned against the tiled wall in Rossi's luxurious master bath, letting pulsing jets of spray pummel his skin, and found an odd sort of peace in his situation. He knew it was traceable to the aftermath of an epic bender, but he was willing to consider it a soothing recess from the hellish landscape through which his mind had been travelling.

Didn't matter that, once he was fully recovered, he'd still be in it. Didn't matter that his acceptance of that meant he was weakening. He didn't see a way out. As long as Lewis was alive, there would be someone to pull the trigger. Or triggers…plural. As long as Lewis was living, he'd know Hotch's insides almost better than Hotch himself.

There was no way to fight it, and Aaron was beginning to accept defeat.

He recalled the last time he'd been in Rossi's shower. When this whole mess had begun. He'd curled up in a corner, naked and defenseless, grieving what he saw as an irretrievable loss of emotional dignity. He didn't huddle on the floor this time. The loss was still there.

_It's like the stages of grief when you lose a loved one. I'm in the acceptance stage. I know there's nothing I can do to fight back. I lost. Lewis won._ His lips twisted in a grimace. _I fought so hard. So __**hard**__. I didn't deserve this. All I ever wanted was to get through life without doing anything really bad. If I could do some good along the way, I'd be grateful. Compared to most, those are pretty modest goals. Why am I being punished?_

"Aaron? You okay?"

Rossi's voice intruded on Hotch's thoughts, and reminded the younger man again of his last time showering here. _He wants to be sure I'm not giving him a repeat performance. They might not say it, but they all know I'm not the same man they signed on to follow. They're all gonna be worried about me from now on. _

_I lost. Lewis won._

"I'm fine, Dave. I'll be out in a minute."

"Morgan and Reid are downstairs. They're headed back to Maryland. They wanted to stop by and touch bases with you first. You know…see how you're doing."

"Okay." The water turned off. "I'll be down. Tell them I'm fine."

Rossi backed out of the bathroom, granting Hotch his privacy. He'd do as requested; go downstairs where the others waited. But he wouldn't lie to them.

Hotch wasn't fine. His voice had been leaden, defeated, lifeless; a measure of the man's inner state.

Dave rubbed a worried hand over his beard. _Whatever the kid's planning to do…I sure hope it works._

XXXXXXXXXXX

Garcia's hands were a blur; bangles clacking, rings flashing over her keyboard with the speed of hummingbird's wings.

The first recording had taken the longest. She'd been feeling her way and testing different sound effects and levels. She'd found the bit with the flying Frisbee and melded it to perfection with the original footage.

Reid's second request had taken less time. The bulk of the work had already been done. All she had to do was copy it and tweak it a little. A _very_ little.

She'd finished it and sent it to his phone, clearly labeled to identify it as the NUMBER 2 step in his plan. And then…the genius that was Penelope took flight.

She knew Spencer's intentions. She completed his requested modifications first. Then, just as she'd known to add the vicious, gloating chuckle in Reid's voice at the end of her first production, she went in search of other little touches with which to surprise him.

Garcia amazed herself.

When she was finished and all her work had been sent to Reid, who was by then on his way to Maryland for another encounter or two with Peter Lewis, she leaned back in her chair and smiled.

She only wished Boy Wonder could record Lewis's reactions when his own triggers were pulled.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch descended the stairs like a creature made of clockwork.

No bounce in his step. Eyes fastened on his feet. It might have been because his head was still pounding. It might have been that he was being cautious about slipping on Rossi's sweeping, marble staircase; his injured shoulder dictating his movement.

The profilers could tell, though. Some vital fire was gone, or banked so low it might as well be.

"You sure he doesn't remember?" Whispering, Morgan leaned close to Dave.

"Sure as I can be with him."

Reid's lips began their dance of distress, chewing and churning. "He doesn't _have_ to remember, guys. He knows he lost it in front of us. He knows it's been recorded and people are gonna see it. Remember how he was right after Foyet?"

"Yeah." Rossi sighed. "Confused. Quiet. Kept to himself."

"Well, _this_ Foyet's still out there…" A low, uncharacteristic anger infused Reid's words. "It's not like Hotch can hunt him. He needs a way to feel like he's not a victim waiting for the next attack."

"And you think you can do that, Pretty Boy?"

Spencer's lips stilled, pressing into a thin, determined line. "Gonna do my damnedest."


	72. Sage, Camera --- Action!

The agents exchanged concerned glances.

Correction: Three agents stared at Hotch with concern, and at each other for corroboration. _He's not doing so well, and it has more to do with a hangover from Peter Lewis than from Scotch._

The Unit Chief assessed his observers with quick, furtive looks. Mostly, he kept his eyes averted, even when he spoke to them. "Rossi says you're headed back to Maryland."

"Yeah. Pretty Boy wants another go at Rat-Face."

Hotch felt all eyes on him while he focused on Dave's Turkish carpet in the entry hall where they'd gathered. He inhaled a deep breath. "Are you sure that's wise? Reid?"

Spencer blinked. Fresh from his session with Garcia, his mind was devoting most of its astonishing capacity to how he expected his strategy to play out in the Garrett County jail. It was a foregone conclusion that he would engage Lewis in subtle battle. Hotch's question threw him off.

"Wha…why wouldn't it be?"

Aaron shrugged as best he could with one good shoulder. "I don't want my mess rubbing off on anyone else. That's all." He finished in a mumble that was in stark contrast to the commanding tone they were used to hearing in the field.

Morgan frowned. "You said something like that yesterday, too, man." Hotch looked up, sensing the possibility of finding out more about his behavior that had been recorded. "You said you were a mess. You're not. You've been messed _with_. There's a difference."

"And like I've said before," Rossi interjected. "Mess with one of us, and you mess with all of us."

Hotch looked down and bit at his lower lip. He shook his head once. "No. I understand the one-for-all-and-all-for-one sentiment, but this is different. This is Reid putting himself at risk when…" Aaron's voice caught. "…when the damage has already been done. Whatever Reid does won't 'fix' me."

The others could see this was costing their leader. Having to put it into words hurt.

Spencer's lip-aerobics had picked up speed, reflecting his distress. Yet his voice was quiet, which somehow gave his argument more weight. "I think I _can_ make things better for you, Hotch. I can't show you how, but you have to trust me."

A note of strained pain entered the young genius's tone. "You're the first person I ever met who did that on sight. Trusted me completely. Even now, sometimes the others question me…the data I can toss out…and I know it's in a friendly way, but you _never_ do that. You always believe what I say, so…so I'm telling you I'd rather risk contact with someone as twisted as Lewis, than risk losing you." He dropped his gaze to the floor just as the Unit Chief raised his. "I need you to keep trusting me, Hotch. Please."

Aaron studied his youngest agent's bowed head with its unruly hair. He hated the thought that Lewis could leave his footprints on that beautiful mind. "I _do_ trust you, Reid. It's _because_ you're one of those people I know I can rely on…knew it from the moment I met you…that I don't want to risk losing _you_." Both agents locked eyes. "I think we're at a standoff."

Silence fell over Rossi's foyer, until…

…Morgan's chuckle broke the tension. " 'S not a standoff, Bossman. 'S a mutual admiration society."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a little more debate, but Hotch wasn't at his best.

He didn't have the energy or sufficient information to argue. He asked if he could see the recording since Reid seemed to have such confidence in his plan, and as far as Aaron could tell, that was the only ammunition he was taking with him to Maryland.

"No." It was a unanimous, simultaneous response from all three agents.

No explanation or elaboration was offered.

Hotch absorbed another defeat and watched with worried eyes as Morgan and Reid pulled out of the driveway, bound for the Garrett County jail. He felt a warm hand descend onto his good shoulder, giving it an affectionate shake.

"He's a smart kid, Aaron. He'll be okay."

"Hope so."

Rossi sighed. Normally, he'd have tried to get Hotch's mind off things by offering him a nice, big glass of his finest Scotch.

He didn't think that was an option this time around.

XXXXXXXXXXX

During the drive to Maryland, Reid watched as Garcia sent file after file to his phone.

He opened each one, eyes widening in appreciative awe of the tech analyst's speed and talent. Morgan cast sideways glances at his passenger as each message chimed its arrival.

"What is all that? You gonna let me see?"

"Sure. When we stop. I would've shown Rossi, but I didn't want Hotch to…" Reid's voice faded as he stared at the last of Garcia's works. "Wow."

"What?"

Silence as Reid raised the tiny screen nearer his eyes.

"Hey! Pretty Boy! What is it?"

The young doctor turned up the volume on his phone, bringing it closer to Morgan's ear. Derek tilted his head, the better to hear. His frown deepened. "Who is that? I don't recognize the voice."

"I'll tell you when we stop." Reid's grin was almost as evil as the chuckle Garcia had created for him. "You're gonna love it."

XXXXXXXXXXX

They took rooms for the night, intending to be fresh for a meeting with Lewis the next day.

Stopping at a small, roadside diner for burgers, Reid pocketed a few matchbooks on the way out. Morgan watched him with narrowed eyes.

"You've got a lot of stuff to explain, kid. Since when do you collect matches?"

"It's for tomorrow. I need you to do something while I'm showing Lewis the first recording." Reid flashed his teammate a grin. "Don't worry. It'll only take a few minutes."

But Derek _was_ a little concerned. It looked as though Spencer was beginning to actually enjoy himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, Reid turned off the camera in the interrogation room after he and Peter Lewis were alone.

Morgan had set up equipment to record the entire meeting from behind the observation room's one-way mirror. He left things running for a few minutes on their own as he made his way deeper into the facility in search of Lewis's cell.

Once he'd found it, he dug in his pockets for the items Reid had given him. Slowly, with a smile, he lit Garcia's smudge stick of sage, wafting it through the spaces between the bars, letting the tell-tale scent drift deep, attaching to bedding and books and clothing.

When he was satisfied with the result, Morgan returned to oversee Reid's meeting, and to make sure the camera caught as much as it could.

It would be a little fuzzy at times, and it would take a couple of days, but, if things went the way they hoped, they would have something to bring home to their Unit Chief.

Something to lay at his feet like a tribute…like a strange, twisted, little gift of healing.


	73. The Play's the Thing---

Lewis watched Reid switch off the closed circuit camera with beady, avid eyes.

He knew the only reason the FBI agent would have returned for another visit would be if he had accomplished the task he'd been set; the small matter of detonating another landmine inside sad, little Aaron Hotchner. The inmate almost bounced in his seat with gleeful anticipation.

"Did you do it, Doctor? Did you do what I asked? _As_ I asked?"

Nodding, Reid hid his distaste behind the acts of getting comfortable in his seat and searching through his phone for the correct video. It also gave him time to coach himself. _Remember to act as though this was fun. You have to make him think you enjoyed pushing Hotch's buttons, or he'll never let you in on how he installed them or how many might be left. You have to measure up to that sick giggle Garcia put at the end._

"I did _exactly_ as you asked, Mr. Lewis. We both know I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Peter actually rubbed his hands together, reminding Reid of old-time villains as they were portrayed in sketchy, scratchy silent films. He was sure if Morgan had returned from imbuing the man's cell with sage, he'd be shuddering with revulsion in the observation room. Spencer envied his partner the freedom to do so. He kept his own reactions under strict control.

"Well…I'll be the judge of whether or not you were successful." Lewis leaned halfway across the table, wet tongue darting between his lips, making Reid think Derek's choice of 'Rat-Face' was an extremely appropriate one as nicknames went. "Show me."

Spencer brought up the first doctored version depicting a backyard barbeque complete with the delighted laughter of children and adults as everyone enjoyed a rare, stress-free gathering. He held the phone inches from the inmate's face, but when Lewis touched two fingers to the device, Reid held tight. He was not going to allow the cell out of his possession. He only hoped it wouldn't become a condition of his 'tuition.'

There were so many things that could go wrong.

The young agent chose not to dwell on them. Instead, Spencer focused on Lewis's reactions as he watched the video, and told himself to be ready with a close approximation of that ending chuckle; a sign that he and prisoner #7962 were _compadres_…simpatico when it came to the destruction of those undeserving, unintelligent, alphas who populated the ranks of the FBI.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In the observation room, Morgan's lips lifted in a sneering snarl.

He couldn't see exactly what Rat-Face was watching on Reid's phone, but the young doctor had shown him all the files Garcia had created when they'd retired to their hotel the previous night. Derek knew what the first one was. Knew firsthand the howling pain Hotch had experienced. Had held his Unit Chief's body as it convulsed with emotional agony.

Now, seeing Lewis's eyes shifting as they followed the action, seeing his wet-lipped mouth hang open with greedy anticipation…Morgan felt bad for Spencer. And understood a little better Bossman's concern.

_No one should have to rub up against someone like that. He's a disease._

It was easy to tell when they'd reached the end of the video. Lewis exploded with joy.

Morgan's stomach turned.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid made himself smile. Then he forced himself to grin.

Lewis was doubled over, choking on the force of his own laughter. "Oh…Oh, that was…that was…" He wiped tears of hilarity from his eyes. "And the boy? That was… that was…"

"Hotchner's son." Spencer couldn't bring himself to utter Jack's name. Not here. Not to this monster.

"Oh…Oh…yes…" Lewis finished, panting. Then, like a shutter dropping over a window, the view changed. Face a blank mask, he skewered Reid with his pinpoint glare. "This would have been better if sweet, little Aaron hadn't been three sheets to the wind."

The young agent had been expecting this. He shrugged, shaking his head. "We'd still be waiting for an opportunity to record, if you wanted to catch him sober. Guy's a sot. I told you last time. He's done." Reid heaved a sigh redolent with boredom. "The only value Hotchner has is as entertainment." His features lit as though he'd just realized… "Or maybe as a classroom. You can use him like a lab and show me how to pay your work forward." A sly smile worthy of Garcia's chuckle-work slid into place on Spencer's face.

Lewis studied his visitor for several beats. Reid wanted to hold his breath, but reminded himself to stay in character. _Inhale…exhale…inhale…remember: Hotch isn't a big deal. Rat-Face can't suspect how much you want to know the details of what he did to Hotch._

It felt like an eternity, but, of course, it wasn't.

The greedy grin of a child grasping for all the sweets in the world returned. Avaricious eyes snapping and glittering, Lewis locked his attention on Reid's phone. "Show me again…I want to see it all again." He ended on what could only be described as a chortle.

It made Spencer's skin crawl and pucker. "Okay, but then it's your turn to give _me_ something. That was our deal." With deft fingers, the young doctor called up Garcia's video #2. He moved the tiny screen in close once again. And, once again, kept control of the device, denying anything more than a fingertip touch to the inmate.

As Lewis bounced in his seat, completely focused on the show he was sooooo enjoying, Reid risked a glance toward the one-way mirror. He nodded.

It was Morgan's signal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter was delighted!

He had to rein himself in. His first impulse had been to jig about the room and slap Dr. Reid on the back, congratulating him for bringing yet another trigger to fruition. But he'd pulled back. It was essential he stay in control. He knew how momentous it was to _have_ control.

That's why he'd taken it away from sweet, sad, little Aaron Hotchner.

Viewing that marvelous video had enacted a sea change in his attitude. Even without the phone his slack-ass attorney had smuggled in…even without all the bells and whistles of everyday life available to him…he'd managed to wreak his will on the world.

His ego soared.

Suddenly, life imprisonment wasn't so bad. Not if it included treats like this!

He had to see the video again. That wonderful, marvelous, soul-satisfying video!

"Show me again…I want to see it all again."

Ohhhhh…yes! Prison would hardly be noticeable if he could train someone like Dr. Reid to be his hand puppet…to work his will in the outside world. The man was obviously of a lesser caliber, a lesser intellect. He was a loose cannon, a man without loyalties, a pigeon waiting to be enticed with a handful of stale crumbs.

"Show me again…"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Reid watched Lewis's face as video #2 played.

He knew where the inmate would feel the rug pulled out from under him. The _first_ rug, that is…

Eyes shining with malicious joy, the prisoner breathed a huge sigh of satisfaction as things played out.

Until…

It was more extreme than the shutter-effect of before. This time it fell over a window and cut off all light. It was skin going pale and clammy in a beat. It was a gasp so sharp it spasmed the lungs.

"Wha…what was _that_!?" Lewis's fingers scrabbled at Reid's phone.

"What was what?" The doctor pulled back, out of reach at the same moment the interrogation room door opened, revealing the guard Morgan had told to interrupt.

"Meeting's over guys. Sheriff said to get everyone back in their cells."

Lewis's eyes rolled with wild, frenzied panic. "NO! What…what _was_ that?! _What_!?"

Reid gave him a puzzled frown. "Don't know what you're talking about, but…" He glanced at the impatient guard. "…I'll be back tomorrow." His eyes narrowed. "We have a lot more to talk about…don't we…?"

The guard did a creditable job of hustling the prisoner out and away before any more conversation could happen. He'd been slipped a $20 bill by the guy in the observation room to do so. He had no complaints.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Being pushed down the hall, Peter Lewis's fabulous mind had telescoped down to one thing.

But it _couldn't_ be…

He'd swear it wasn't there before, but…the second time watching that marvelous video, when it got to the part where the Frisbee had fallen at Dr. Reid's feet and had been retrieved by a small boy…sad, little Aaron's son…an _adult's_ hand had intruded.

It had picked up the Frisbee and handed it off to the child.

It had been an older man's hand.

It had worn the signet ring Peter's father had worn every day of his life until he'd been arrested. Then, the ring had been placed in a plastic bag with his other personal effects. All of which had been released to Peter when Lewis, Sr. had died in prison.

The same ring that Peter had worn until _he'd_ been arrested. And it had been taken…placed in a plastic bag with the rest of his effects.

His father's ring. His father's hand? _IMPOSSIBLE_!

It filled Lewis's mind all the way to his cell. The only thing that displaced the shock a little, was the unmistakable reek of sage permeating his quarters.


	74. Seeds of Doubt

Confined, Lewis paced the same linear route with the repetitive futility of a duck in a carnival shooting gallery.

Back and forth. To and fro. Pausing now and again to press his narrow face into the space between the bars and shout for a guard to explain why his session with Dr. Reid had been cut short; to claim vital need to make a phone call to the young doctor; to demand to see his personal possessions taken at the time of his arrest. He needed to know if the signet ring was still there.

His brain danced and leaped, tossing up theories to account for what he'd seen…_thought_ he'd seen?...how could he be sure? _I __**NEED**__ to see that again! I __**NEED**__ to!_

The image of his father's hand, his father's ring shuffled through his mind to a painful degree. And the stench, the reek of sage that surrounded him, kept tickling his nostrils like an echo from his past, from how he'd conditioned his victims. _Where the hell did __**that**__ come from?!_

At mealtime, he was so edgy and hostile, the atmosphere in the cafeteria began to border on stormy. As a precaution against a riot outbreak, prisoner #7962 was returned to his cell; in effect being granted room service for the rest of the day.

No one paid attention to his increasingly strident demands.

Peter tossed and turned all night on the unforgiving surface of his bunk. Sporadic sleep was peopled by his mother and father, and all the real and imagined wrongs that had set their brilliant son on his murderous course so many years ago.

Lewis's brain shared some characteristics with that of Spencer Reid's. It was multi-level beyond the average. And it tended to seek solutions without conscious effort. In fact, conscious effort could prove obstructive. So, when Peter emerged from the last fevered doze of the night, he levered himself up onto his elbows and a thought that had been forming in his spotty sleep surfaced… _It's a trick. It's an FBI trick. Dr. Reid's not really on my side._

It would have been a comforting explanation, except for two things.

Lewis couldn't be sure that he'd really seen that brief, fleeting image. If he _had_, he couldn't think of any way the doctor would have known about his father's…now his…ring. Sure, he could have taken it from the safekeeping of the sheriff's office, but how would he have known it was something Lewis, Sr. wore every day?

Mind splintering off onto a thousand tangents, Peter gritted his teeth and admitted he needed empirical proof.

That could only come from another meeting with Dr. Reid.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch poked at his breakfast, moving an egg-y mess from one side of his plate to the other. He cast a furtive glance toward his host sitting across from him.

"I could go home, Dave. I'd be okay on my own."

"Shut up and eat. You're not going anywhere." Harsh words, but the tone was so full of affection, so easy with their long, shared history, that Aaron couldn't take offense. "And quit abusing those eggs. They're supposed to go in your mouth."

"Sorry." Hotch made an effort, but it was hard. He had no appetite.

From the corner of his eye, Rossi kept track of the younger man's progress. He decided it was like watching Mudgie eat peanut butter; a lot more chewing than one would think necessary. He sighed. "Can't live on coffee, Aaron. You'll heal faster if your body has nutrients at its disposal."

He wasn't even sure if he'd been heard. The Unit Chief was scowling at his meal between bites; mind miles away from the breakfast table. _Probably somewhere in Maryland…_ Hotch's next words confirmed it.

"Wha'd'you think Morgan and Reid are doing about now?"

"Their best."

Hotch looked up, eyes connecting with Rossi's. After a lip-biting moment he took a deep breath. "I don't remember much, but I know another trigger went off yesterday. I mean, that was the whole purpose of getting together, right?"

Dave's regard never wavered. "I'm not going to give you a blow by blow account."

"I don't want you to." Rossi could tell Aaron was looking for signs of evasion in his responses. "But…was it…was it…Haley? Dave? Was it?"

With slow, deliberate movements, Rossi set down his coffee cup and the newspaper pages he'd been reading. Deadpan, he met Hotch's slightly nervous expression. "What makes you think that?"

"I'm not sure. It's just…just that we've been saying that I don't know what the triggers are until they fire. And…and…" The crack in his voice was adolescent, embarrassing. Hotch stopped talking rather than continue and make it worse.

As distressed as Aaron's voice was, Rossi's matched it, then balanced it with gentleness. "So you've been thinking of Haley?"

"NO…That's just it. I…" The younger man's posture slumped, telling Dave this was a private matter that he'd never intended to share with anyone. Hotch steadied himself with a deep breath. "I think of Haley…of what happened…every day. And I just realized it's been a while since…since the last time…" His lips twitched, fighting the emotional display lurking near the surface.

"And now you can think about her again." Rossi rubbed a hand over his face, trying to suppress his own surge of renewed hate for Peter Lewis.

"Yes. Dave, was it Haley?"

"It was."

Hotch absorbed this fact during a short silence. "What did…what was…how…" He gave the older man a helpless look; his usual verbal eloquence deserting him.

"I don't think you need to know that, Aaron. The trigger itself was cruel, sadistic…just like all the others that bastard anchored in you. It's enough for you to know you're free of it."

"Am I? Will I ever be sure?"

Rossi released a long, slow breath. "Ohhhh, boy….We get through life surrounded by doubt. There's very little you can say we're truly sure of."

"What if I can't ever trust myself again, Dave? What'll I do?"

One side of Rossi's lips quirked upward in a wry smile. "_We'll_ trust you. And you'll see it and feel it. And because _you_ trust _us_, you'll begin to believe in yourself again. The man you were doesn't end here, Aaron. But what was done to you _will_ end…" He jutted his chin vaguely northward. "…_is_ in the process of ending over there in Maryland."

Which brought the two old friends full circle.

Hotch's voice was wistful. "I wonder what Morgan and Reid are doing…"

"Their best. You can count on that."


	75. Say Hello to Daddy

By mid-morning, at which time Reid had decided the next meeting with Lewis would take place, both inmate and agent were in character.

Lewis was practically sweating suspicion, but overlaying it with what he considered an indifferent, superior attitude. Unfortunately for him, he was dealing with a professional profiler who spent the bulk of his time seeing through the layers of deception people drew about themselves like cloaks. Equally unfortunate, Lewis was dealing with a man who'd spent a lifetime examining himself…his own mind and his own reactions…and was becoming more and more adept at the way he presented himself in this charade.

Reid was well aware that growing up in genius territory carried a penalty. There were insecurities and awkwardness and an inability to relate to the majority of mankind. Studying human behavior had been an interest of Spencer's since he was a child, because he wanted to know why he didn't fit in, and he wanted to know how others could find a niche with such effortless ease.

Lewis had taken a different path. He'd recognized his inability to fit in just as Reid had, but that recognition had fostered contempt. And contempt was like an iron curtain that slammed down, keeping empathy at bay.

Empathy. It was one of Spencer's study tools. Hotch had brought him along, leading by example, knowing the young genius would pick up on details that evaded normal intellects. Reid's gentle soul had sidestepped contempt because it longed to be accepted. He daydreamed about being ordinary.

Lewis, on the other hand, had embraced contempt as a defense against the pain and loneliness of being ostracized. The end result was that Reid's talents, combined with compassionate empathy, were an art that enjoyed boundless potential. Lewis was only a weapon.

Gifted with similar IQs, their paths couldn't have been more divergent.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter took his seat and waited.

He believed himself to be an enigma. No one could read him. No one could figure out his goals and methods. If the disturbing image of his father's hand was an FBI trick, he wouldn't let on that they had managed to disrupt his life on every level in this Godforsaken hole.

But he _would_ see that video again. They weren't smart enough to fool him. He'd figure it out.

Or so he kept telling himself, denying the uncertainty that was growing like a cancer. _**Did**__ I see it? Is my mind being affected by having to rub shoulders with these human cattle every waking minute?_ It was one of his greatest fears.

He pressed his bloodless lips into a determined line, watched the door…

…and waited.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan had set up his camera equipment again.

Now he was waiting for Reid to do what he thought of as 'entering Rat-Face zone.' It was unsettling to see the young genius Derek likened to a baby chick, all innocence and trust and in need of protection, turn into the bitter, hardened character that Reid had chosen to interact with Lewis.

Morgan knew his teammate. He was also well-versed in the skills needed to work deep cover. He'd done so himself when he was a cop in Chicago. It was like method acting. You had to draw on your real experiences and emotions to create underlying believability. He suspected Reid was reliving the bullying and heartbreak and grief that had earmarked his early life and, later, all the injustices and regrets that attended his job, as well as the tragedy of his star-crossed romantic interest in Maeve. All the things Spencer kept inside; all the hurt and anger he never showed.

_He's not like the rest of us. We grow jaded, experienced. Somehow, it doesn't touch him. There's a Peter Pan quality that lives hopefully ever after, unmarred by the things that change your average Joe._

Reid caught Morgan staring and looked back at his colleague from deep inside Rat-Face zone with blank, chilly eyes. "You know what to do? When I cough and cover my mouth?"

Derek nodded. "Press of a button, kid. I'll call you. It'll drive the bastard crazy."

"Uh-huh. And you'll do the sage thing again? You brought the matches?"

Blinking, Morgan nodded once more. This wasn't Pretty Boy whom he could tussle and tease. This was an angry, embittered man eaten up with imagined slights. Unsettling.

"Good. It's time."

Without a smile or another glance, Reid exited the observation room.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

When the door to the interrogation room opened, admitting the FBI agent, Lewis raised his chin with an air of aloof calculation. It was meant to make Dr. Reid think he'd been found out…_IF_ the video had been a trick.

What Spencer saw with his profiling skill was flared nostrils; a nervous bounce in one foot, quickly controlled; too much blinking.

Lewis spoke, hearing himself sound commanding, imperious.

Reid heard a petulant brat, unsure…maybe even scared.

"Good morning, Dr. Reid. I'd like to see that video again. Now."

The agent shook his head, gaze level. "No. We have a deal. It's your turn. I've paid my…tuition. It's time for a lesson in exchange."

"NO!..." Lewis had shouted. He realized it was at odds with the image he wished to cultivate and backed down his volume. But his words were still insistent. "I would like to see that video again."

"When we're done." Reid turned off the closed circuit camera and took a seat, slumping low, legs stretched beneath the table. "First you need to talk to me about your methods." He drew the phone from his pocket, tilting it back and forth invitingly. "Lesson first, play afterwards."

The two stared each other down for several beats. Reid knew he would win. Lewis's anxious need to see the recording was running through him like a barely concealed current.

"Fine." The inmate looked around, taking a moment to get his irritation under control. He wanted to make this quick. The sooner he gave this idiot FBI agent something, the sooner he could see if his imagination had conjured up his father's hand. _And that __**has**__ to be it…imagination. That's all…_

"Fine. First you dose your subject with sevoflurane and scopolamine." Peter grinned; this was a favorite subject that illustrated his creative genius in finding unorthodox uses for common drugs. "All they have to do is inhale and they're out. They're yours. You own them." He giggled. "As they come out of it…that's the time for you to, shall we say…_customize_ their reactions? They'll be delirious and highly suggestible. But you have to get the dosage right. Or rather…" He giggled. "…the _over_dosage."

Reid frowned. "But those are common drugs. They wouldn't account for…"

"No." Lewis interrupted, knowing what the agent was going to say. He wanted to cut to the chase so he could view the video again. "No, the drugs alone won't accomplish what you want…that's where you have to get inventive."

"Like…?"

Peter regarded his visitor through narrowed eyes. "By using touch and verbal suggestion. If you want details, you'll have to show me Agent Hotchner's backyard barbeque adventure again." He leaned back, crossing his arms.

Reid might have pushed for more, but he could sense the desperation in Lewis. And it just felt like a good time to…_shall we say __**customize**__ your viewing pleasure, Mr. Lewis?_

Spencer sighed as though he'd been bested. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he brought up Garcia's file #3.

He held the phone in front of the inmate's nose and pressed 'play.'

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Every ounce of Peter Lewis's attention was riveted on the scene playing out before him.

_Yes…yes…I remember this…come on! Get to the part where…_

He nearly bounced with impatience. When the view seemed to swing around to the Frisbee landing close to Reid's feet, Lewis tensed…expectant. When all he saw was a little boy picking the toy up and grinning, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He hadn't been aware he'd been holding his breath.

_I knew it! There was no hand. No ring. Just my imagination. I must have been tired or…_

This time Peter didn't form words. This time all that issued from his throat was a strangled cry. His face went shock white.

Before he could lunge for the phone…it rang.

Reid turned it toward himself…away from Lewis's sight…and answered the call.

While the inmate was gasping and shaking, the FBI agent shook his head. "Sorry, Mr. Lewis. This is important. Gotta go. We'll talk again." Reid was out the door and gone before Peter could regain enough breath to speak.

He quaked in his chair until the guard entered and pulled him to his feet. He stumbled to his cell. Once there, he crawled into a corner of his bunk, drew his knees up, and buried his face against them.

As Dr. Reid had panned back from the Frisbee interruption toward the main subject of Agent Hotchner, he'd passed a man…a face that hadn't been there the first time! _I would have seen it! I would have remembered! I would have! I would!_

It had been slightly blurred from the camera's motion, but it had been unmistakable. _Dad! Daddy!_

And he hadn't been looking at Reid, at the man filming. He had been looking directly into the lens. Straight through it. Straight at his son, his little boy, Peter.

And the expression on his face had been one of pure sorrow, of keen disappointment.

Lewis didn't realize he was sobbing until another prisoner shouted at him to shut the fuck up.


	76. Same Difference

"Quit staring at me, Dave."

"You haven't turned a page. You've been on the same one for the last ten minutes."

"That's because I can feel someone staring at me."

"Liar."

"Stare-er."

After a moment, Hotch abandoned the effort to look peacefully occupied with a book. He met Rossi's critical regard. "I can't stop wondering how it's going at the jail. Can't stop thinking about Reid going up against…him."

Dave deserted his own attempt to look busy going over publisher's contracts. He shuffled the papers away. Folding his hands, he gave his full attention to Hotch. "You're not thinking, Aaron. You're brooding. You've been hurt so your mind is focused on how it happened. Doesn't mean that it'll happen to anyone else." Rossi tossed his hands up. "I mean, c'mon…how's the guy gonna drug a visiting FBI agent in jail? Huh?"

Hotch scrubbed the heel of his one good hand across his eyes, trying to expunge the image of Reid going head to head with a cobra. "I know, I know. I don't know what's wrong with me. Why I can't let it go…"

A glint shone in Rossi's eye. He smelled a golden opportunity to distract the younger man by challenging him to take his profiling skills out and trot them around the block. At least it beat brooding. He leaned forward, focused. "Alright. If you suspect there's something wrong with you, let's take a deeper look at it. We've got the time, and the psychological expertise between us. No reason not to."

Dave tracked the movement of Hotch's Adam's apple as he swallowed. Clearly the man was anxious. Clearly he needed to let some of it out. After a moment of gnawing on his bottom lip, the Unit Chief took a preparatory breath.

"I think I'm worried about Reid because he has a lot in common with Lewis."

Rossi's brows rose. "And you think…what? They'll join forces? Become buddies? You're not serious."

"No. Not like that." Hotch shook his head, pulling himself up in his chair as though straightening his posture would also untangle his thoughts. But then he went silent, and had a look that Dave knew too well. Aaron's dark, tragic eyes blinked. "This is hard."

"If it was easy, everyone'd do it." The words were facetious, but Rossi's tone was gentle, feather-light. "I'm the only one here. Tell me why you're so worried."

Nodding, Hotch looked down at his hands. "We all have triggers. I know that. We usually don't share them with anyone. And they usually don't blast their way into our lives…" His eyes flicked up, momentarily fastening on the older man, then back down. "…or into the lives of those around us. Being a Unit Chief, I pay attention to my team probably more than anyone else in their lives when it comes to behavioral triggers." He paused.

It looked to Rossi as though Aaron were taking a lip-chewing break. It reminded him of Reid's main 'tell.' And that made him think… "You're worried about triggers that already exist in the kid. You're worried Lewis'll set them off even without knowing them? How could he?"

Hotch's eyelids drifted closed. "Because there's a good chance they share the same ones. I hope I'm wrong, but…"

"But you're pretty sure you're right." The two men's eyes connected and held. Rossi pulled out his phone.

"I think I'll give Morgan a call. See how things are going."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lewis had been returned to his cell nearly frothing at the mouth. His shouts echoed through the Garrett County jail corridors, earning him isolation for the rest of the day.

Officials couldn't chance the inmate, who already made others uneasy, inciting violence. As it was, they heard prisoners yelling for #7962 to pipe down. Only not in such courteous terms.

Reid had rejoined Morgan in the observation room. Derek was replaying the recording he'd made, doing a spot-check on the quality; making sure he'd captured the high points of the encounter. He glanced up as the young doctor entered, offering a broad grin.

"Great job, Pretty Boy. You wanna see?"

Spencer shook his head, avoiding the playback monitor. "No. I'm good."

"You _bet_ you're good, kid. You sure you don't wanna see? You were out the door and gone before it really hit Rat-Face, but you got him but goooood." Morgan's grin faded when Reid failed to respond. "Hey. Kid. What's goin' on with you?"

Spencer shook his head, gaze holding steady on the now empty interrogation room beyond the one-way mirror.

Derek turned off his equipment. With slow, deliberation he stowed everything away, ready for the morrow. When his young teammate still hadn't spoken and gave every indication of being lost in his own thoughts, Morgan collared him with a muscular arm crooked around his neck.

"Morgan! Stop that!" Reid twisted out of his friend's hold. It had been too reminiscent of bullying moves on the playground that the young doctor would never forget.

"Talk to me, kid. Or I'll drag you out of here and all the way to that Chinese place we passed coming in…Golden Dragon or something. Make you use chopsticks. In front of everyone." A shadow passed over Spencer's eyes. He could do magic tricks. He could amaze with sleight-of-hand. He could not manipulate chopsticks.

Morgan's regard was narrow. "Talk to me. Or it's chopstick time."

Reid knew it was a semi-humorous threat. He knew his co-worker's heart was in the right place. He gave in. "Okay."

After a quiet moment, Morgan prodded. "Well? What's up with you?"

"I'm no better than Lewis." Derek had to strain to hear the words. Reid spoke in a near whisper; shame evident in every word.

"What? Kid! Why would you say that?"

The lip chewing and twisting began. "Because I know his triggers. And I'm using them against him. And I understand how much they hurt, 'cause… 'cause…" The young genius's lips stilled, then quivered.

Morgan read all the signs. _My God, he's really torn up about this! Might cry!_ "You understand how Rat-Face feels because you're a damn good profiler. You use your empathy to get into his head."

Reid shook his head, eyeing the floor. "No. I know his triggers, 'cause I have the same ones." At last he met Derek's concerned gaze. "There's the missing-your-father thing, and…and knowing your brain is…different…and secretly always, always wondering if it'll betray you someday. If you'll wind up insane. In an institution."

Spencer searched Morgan's eyes, looking for judgment while a single, large drop overflowed from his own. "I'm making him doubt his own sanity by using memories of his father against him. I know what that would do to me, if the tables were turned." His head hung. "I'm no better than an unsub."

It was only a few seconds of silence, but it felt like hours to Reid, waiting for his teammate to see that he was right, to pronounce sentence on him and name him 'monster.'

"Kid…for a real smart boy, you've managed to get it so, so wrong." Morgan sighed, pushing his young colleague down into a chair, pulling another close so they sat knee to knee. "The difference is motive, Reid. Rat-Face did what he did for revenge. But what he did to Hotch was for fun. Bossman never did anything against him. He didn't have to hurt Hotch. But he did. And took a lot of enjoyment from it."

Morgan jogged Spencer's knee. "You listening to me? That bastard was laughing at the way Hotch screamed Haley's name. Are _you_ laughing? No. That's the difference. Plain and simple."

He waited to see if his words had sunk in and taken hold. After a few minutes, Reid sighed and looked up.

"I think I need to talk to H-Hotch."

Like an omen, Morgan's phone rang.


	77. Help From Home

Morgan glanced at the caller ID before answering his phone.

"Hey, Rossi. What's up?"

"Kind of wondering the same about you guys." There was something in the older man's tone that made Derek wary. "How's it going? How's Reid doing?"

"Good." Morgan's eyes connected with the young doctor's. "Maybe havin' a little bit of an… uh…identity crisis, but…good. Good. He's got Rat-Face on the ropes."

"Identity crisis?" In Quantico, Rossi saw Aaron look alert, the furrow in his brow deepening, back stiffening.

"Yeeeaaahhh…" Derek surveyed Spencer sitting across from him. "He'll be okay. Just a little sad about…stuff."

Rossi saw Aaron motioning him with small, urgent hand gestures. "Hang on. Hotch wants to talk to you." He passed the phone over.

"Morgan."

"Hey, Bossman. How're you feeling? Better?"

The Unit Chief ignored inquiries after his own health. "What's going on with Reid?"

"I…uh…" Morgan looked into the young agent's eyes mere inches away from his own. It was uncomfortable discussing him when he could hear every word.

"Is he there?" Hotch read his teammate's hesitation.

"Yeah."

"Put him on."

The cell changed hands. Aaron's antennae extended to their full length at the mournful tone of his junior teammate's voice. "Hi, Hotch. I'm okay."

"Good. Then you won't mind talking to me for a little while." The Unit Chief was tensed, focused…unaware of the smile that ghosted across Rossi's face.

_Best way to snap Aaron out of his doldrums is to make him feel needed. Fastest way to do it is present him with a teammate who needs help._ Dave stood, patted Hotch's head and left, granting his leader privacy.

Miles away in Maryland, Derek did the same, ruffling Pretty Boy's hair and stepping out into the hallway to wait.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch's voice softened. "Tell me what's going on, Reid."

The young genius was torn. He wanted to confide in his boss. The deep, authoritarian voice was fatherly, inviting. It struck to Reid's core where he'd been thinking of the paternal issues he and Lewis shared. But there was a limit to how much he could reveal.

This whole gambit was about protecting Hotch. _Mustn't forget the primary goal._

"Reid, you don't have to give me details. Use broad brushstrokes, and just tell me what you did today."

Breaking it down into steps helped. Without thinking much about it, Spencer realized the ones that were giving him trouble didn't really relate to Hotch's part in this. He began, sounding faint and reedy; a sign of his reluctance to admit weakness to a man before whom he wished to appear strong.

"I…I used Lewis's triggers against him. And they worked. And I felt…I felt…"

"You felt bad?"

Hotch heard a long-drawn, shuddering breath on the other end of the line. "Afterwards, yeah. But…but…" Reid went silent.

"A part of you liked it. Liked making him pay for some of the things he's done?"

"Yes." One small word rife with shame and a world of pain.

Hotch's stomach clenched in sympathy. He took a deep breath. _Step carefully. He's fragile._ "Thank you, Reid. Thank you."

"Wha…what? Wha'd'you mean? Why…why would you thank me?"

"Because you're putting yourself through this for me." The Unit Chief's voice dropped even lower, grew ever softer. "You don't have to continue, Reid. Come home. I'll be fine."

For a moment Aaron thought he'd succeeded in convincing his youngest agent. The pause before Spencer spoke was that long. But then…

"What?! No! No! Absolutely not! I won't! I won't!"

Hotch heard a door opening, shuffling noises, and Morgan's voice in the background asking Reid what was going on. Apparently the young doctor's shrill response to his Unit Chief had been audible to a lurking Derek.

"Reid!" Aaron tried to make himself heard over Morgan's anxious queries and Spencer's impatient assurances that nothing was wrong. "Reid!" The noise was growing less chaotic. Things were calming down. "_Agent Reid!_" That did it.

"S-sorry, Hotch. I'm here. But I won't just walk away from this."

"Why?" Once again, Aaron's voice was the soul of calm gentility; an oasis where his youngest teammate could lay down his burdens and rest. "Tell me why you won't leave."

"Why?! Because…because…" Frustration finally pushed the words out. "…because I can't stand for Lewis to hurt you anymore. I won't let him. This ends here."

Hotch felt a surge of gratitude and pride. He tamped it down, keeping his tone even. "So you're engaged in battle. And the combat is one on one, and hand to hand. Am I right?"

"Well…yeah. I didn't think of it quite like that, though."

"Do you think the weapons you're using are unfair in light of the ones your enemy possesses?"

"Well…no…not at all."

"So the only stumbling block is your conscience…" Aaron took a deep breath and went for it. "…and your growing realization that you share some of your enemy's characteristics, right?"

Hotch didn't really expect an answer. He'd noticed that the elegant machinery of Reid's mind faltered when his emotions got involved on a very personal level. It wasn't something that happened often. It had been most noticeable when Maeve's life had been on the line. At times like that, the young genius needed a nudge here…a tweak there…and some reassurance across the miles.

"Reid, you're sacrificing something for me. Do you really think that kind of selfless altruism exists anywhere in Lewis? Think of it this way…a virus can kill, but it's also the basis for the vaccine that defeats it. Same ingredient…different outcome, depending on how it's used."

Hotch paused and held his breath. He'd hoped a comparison based in science would speak to the agent who identified himself as a man of science. In the pause that followed he could almost hear the machinery that had stuttered in Spencer's brain pick up speed again, regaining its smooth, well-oiled ability.

A sigh that had everything to do with relief carried across the connection.

"Hotch?"

"I'm still here."

"Thanks. I knew I should talk to you. I even told Morgan I needed to. I knew you'd understand. Knew it."

The Unit Chief's smile reached his eyes, although Reid couldn't see it.

"I could destroy him, Hotch." There was still a tinge of unease in the statement. Just a touch more reassurance was needed.

"But you won't, Reid. Because you don't need to. And because you don't want to." After a few beats of silence, it felt as though the conversation had accomplished what the doctor needed. "Is Morgan still there?"

"Yeah."

"Put him on."

Background noise accompanied Derek's entrance and appropriation of the phone. "Hey, man, what'd you say to the kid? He walked out the door almost smiling."

"Just reminded him who he is. How are _you_ doing?"

Morgan shrugged. "I'm fine. All I'm doing is recording stuff and burning sage."

"Sage?"

"Long story. Pretty Boy's idea. Not sure if I should have mentioned it."

"Then I won't ask. Morgan, keep an eye on him. If he gets in too deep with Lewis, bring him home. This isn't worth putting Reid through hell."

Derek's snort was both derisive and a compliment. "You're worth more than a couple days in hell, Bossman. See you soon."

Grinning, Morgan hung up before Hotch could make it an order.


	78. Third Time's the Charm

Peter Lewis was admittedly brilliant.

He knew a great deal about a great many things. He could learn with lightning speed. But he didn't know everything. One of the areas that had never interested him was graphics, especially the computer generated type. Lewis found it much more interesting, and ultimately gratifying, to meddle with human minds and the images they could spawn, than with machines.

But shuddering in his cell, feeling alternate waves of nausea and fear, as he considered the possibility that his own mind was tilting off its rails, desperation made him consider other explanations for what he'd seen in Dr. Reid's video.

_It has to be some digital trick. It __**has**__ to!_

Yet the tiny, niggling voice that had been telling Peter all along that he'd lose his mind if he was forced to surround himself with those whose IQs were barely on a par with plant life, wouldn't stop shrilling at him. He could feel its panic mounting. It wasn't so bad when he was occupied with something…_any_thing, really…but incarceration involved so much idle time. That was the real punishment. Not lack of freedom, but boredom. That's what would undo you in the end.

_At least it would those of us who have more than two brain cells to rub together. For everyone else it's a free ride, a walk in the park. I bet Dr. Reid would do well here. Lots of comrades who'd share his bitterness at being wronged. Too stupid to see they got what they deserved because they weren't good enough to rise any higher. And sad, little Aaron Hotchner would __**love**__ it here! He'd feel safe. He could hide under his bunk and convince himself that the big, bad ghoulies in his brain couldn't find him._

For a moment, a gloating smile crept across Lewis's face. Only for a moment. Because around every corner, peeping out of every crack and crevice was the image of his father's face. Turn and twist and examine as he might, Peter arrived at the same conclusion he had before.

_I have to see that video again. And this time __**no interruptions!**_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi decided to strike while the iron was hot.

Helping a teammate, feeling useful…those were the things that could lift some of the cloudy depression and self-doubt hanging over Hotch. Dave was going to make use of the upward momentum brought on by aiding Reid. He would try to bolster Aaron's flagging appetite.

A few minutes after the Unit Chief had hung up, Rossi pushed his way into the den with a tray laden with sandwiches and soft drinks. He glanced at the younger man as he placed his burden on a long, low coffee table. Hotch was still holding Dave's phone, staring at it without really seeing it. Mind…elsewhere.

_Maryland, most likely. Either in a jail cell where a monster waits for Reid. Or with the kid himself, wondering if he's said the right things…if he's really helped. Or if he should try to intervene on Reid's behalf._

"Dave, I think I should be there in Maryland. With Reid and Morgan."

"No."

"Yes. Reid needs…"

"Reid needs to stay focused. He won't be if you're within sight or hearing of Peter Lewis." Rossi sighed as he pressed a sandwich into Hotch's good hand. "He knows he can talk to you any time he wants. You don't need to be there to hold his hand, Aaron." He glanced at the Unit Chief from under his brows, noting the man's look of stubborn concern. "Wha'did he have to say? Anything interesting?"

"It's going down exactly the way I didn't want it to, Dave. Reid's getting too close. He's finding triggers in Lewis and firing them. And it's making him doubt himself…hate himself."

Rossi settled back in his chair, inspecting his own sandwich. "You set him straight, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but it won't last. He's vulnerable. He'll go into another session with Lewis and it'll get worse and worse the deeper he travels into the guy's mentality. I don't want Reid going through that."

"And Reid doesn't want you going through anything more either."

Dave studied his best friend. Hotch had what the older man secretly termed 'the Mudgie look.' It was an expression that conveyed a desperate desire to be understood, but doubt in one's ability to communicate. It usually came over Rossi's dog along about dinner time. Whether in man or beast, tender-hearted Dave found it difficult to ignore.

"Aaron, Reid is smarter than either of us. His brain processes things differently. That means that the help you can give him is limited. None of us speak entirely the same language that kid does. When you help him…and you _do_…" Rossi hastened to add. "…a large part is because you appeal to him on an emotional level, rather than an intellectual one. I bet all he really needed was for his leader to tell him everything'll be okay."

Hotch blinked, but the Mudgie look still lingered around his eyes.

Rossi sighed and shook his head. "We'll call them tomorrow and make sure they're fine. If Reid needs another pep talk, you can give it to him then. For now…shut up and eat your sandwich."

_And I wish you really __**were**__ more like Mudge… you'd have inhaled that thing by now._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"You want me to burn the sage again, kid?"

The next morning, the two agents were in the observation room, preparing for session #3.

"Huh? What?" Reid returned from wherever his mind had been wandering, giving Morgan a blank look.

"The sage. Repeat performance?"

"Uh…yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "I don't know if it'll really matter. This time out should give me all I need to know about whatever he did to Hotch."

"Good. It's about time we went home."

Spencer twisted his lips into different configurations of nervous indecision. "Wait, Morgan. I changed my mind. Don't do the sage anymore."

"You sure? It's no trouble."

Reid looked a little abashed. "I should have what I need before he goes back to his cell, so making him smell that scent that brings up all the crap that happened in his childhood would just be mean…I don't need to do that."

When there was no response from Morgan, Spencer glanced up…and froze at the frown on his teammate's face. "What?"

"You're worried about being _mean_ to Rat-Face? After what he did to Hotch? Kid! Are you serious?!"

Reid seemed to shrink in on himself. "I came here to help Hotch. And…and it's been kind of hard to act like the bad guy. I just think maybe it's time to be better than that." His already thin voice grew smaller. "Talking to Hotch reminded me that I'm not like…him…" The doctor's eyes flicked up and toward the one-way mirror.

Lewis had just been brought in and seated in the interrogation room, ready for another meeting.

Derek looked at the inmate. He was trying to present a calm, unflustered façade. He was failing.

Peter Lewis was perspiring. His leg bounced a nervous staccato rhythm that he seemed unaware of. His fingers knotted and kneaded in constant motion. And his gaze was fixed on the door, the corner of one eye twitching a small, involuntary spasm.

"He's kind of a mess." Morgan grinned. "Good work, kid."

"Thanks." Reid didn't sound proud of a job well done. "If you want to burn sage in his cell, go ahead. I'll understand."

Derek switched his professional regard from prisoner to colleague; saw the young genius begin to get himself into character for another encounter with Rat-Face. Saw the effort it was taking.

"That's okay, Pretty Boy. This is your circus. You get to tell the monkeys what to do. And Hotch is right. You're nothing like that scum. Now, get what you need and let's go home."


	79. Desires

Lewis felt a surge of rage as the interrogation room door opened, admitting sour-faced, embittered Dr. Reid who barely glanced at him before beginning to mutter about his job dissatisfaction; a subject which interested the inmate not at all.

"We have to finish this up today, Mr. Lewis." Reid wrinkled his nose. "The morons at the Bureau want me back so they can pick my brain and take credit for whatever I figure out." He sneered. "Did you know FBI stands for Fairly Bogus IQ?" The young agent snickered to himself as he took a seat, not bothering to notice how his little joke had been received.

"Show me the video." Lewis grated the words out through clenched teeth, barely moving his lips.

Spencer feigned not to notice the tension coiled within the prisoner, waiting to strike. He busied himself with adjusting position, scooting his chair closer to the table.

"Show…me…the…video…_now_." It was more snarl than request.

Inside, Reid smiled. Morgan was right: Lewis was a mess. Outwardly, the young doctor stretched his lips in a mirthless tribute to the act of smiling, sparing a quick glance for his interviewee. "When we're done. That's how it works."

"_I_ make the rules here, Doctor. _I'm_ the one who has the information you need…and can't figure out for yourself no matter how clever your FBI co-workers might think you are."

Spencer finally gave his full attention to the inmate, leaning toward him from the opposite side of the table, locking eyes with him. His voice went needling and venomous. "Oh…I think the balance has changed, Mr. Lewis. We each have something the other wants, but if we quantify 'want,' your desire far, far, _far_ outweighs mine." Reid leaned back, a smirk twisting his lips. "So we do this my way…or not at all." His expression blanked; features going deadpan. "Which will it be? Choose. _Now_."

XXXXXXXXXXX

From his vantage point in the observation room, Morgan stared; his attention more on his colleague than the inmate. A chill of revulsion shuddered up his spine, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. _Damn. Maybe we __**should**__ be worried about the kid gettin' in too deep…_

XXXXXXXXXX

Down in the interrogation room, Lewis was having trouble breathing.

The space felt airless and close. But he was no quitter. And he was confident in his superiority. This upstart agent needed to be reminded of his place in the scheme of things. The scheme having been so beautifully engineered by Peter. He wanted to serve up a wicked grin of his own, but found his control was tenuous at best. He had to settle for mastering his bouncing leg.

"You've got it wrong, Doctor. You haven't thought it through. Let me help you…" To his credit, Lewis managed to school the tremor out of his voice. "If you leave here now, without any further instruction from me, your career in the FBI will be about as illustrious as a doormat. They'll keep stepping on you and over you, and you'll spend your life wishing you'd paid more attention to Mr. Peter Lewis…" He spread his hands, palms up. "…who could have saved you."

Delivering his little speech had taken a toll on the prisoner. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to sharpen his focus and appear controlled.

Reid, however, had noticed every ounce of effort. Through half-lowered lids he scanned his adversary, letting him stew for a few seconds longer than comfortable. The young genius took a deep breath and smiled.

"Here's the difference in our situations, Mr. Lewis. I may walk out of here as a doormat, but I'll be outside. And out there…" Spencer tilted his head toward the door and the freedom Peter would never know again. "…is a world of opportunity and hope. I might find another 'teacher' to show me how to subdue my co-workers. I might find another career entirely. Anything could happen. But you?" A slow, crocodile grin of satisfaction appeared. "This is the end of the line for you. The last act in your show was Agent Hotchner." Reid pulled out his phone, holding it up beside his cheek, drawing focus to his spreading grin. "Now, maybe you've got more triggers planted in Hotchner and you can find someone else who'll manage to document it when they fire…"

Lewis's mouth twitched downward. His eyes flickered. The profiler in Reid wanted to give a joyful shout. _There __**are**__ no more triggers! He knows this is the only way to relive the damage he's done. But Hotch is free. I can tell him that. I can look him in the eye and tell him he's gonna be okay. But I still need to know more about how…so I can help Hotch heal better…faster…_

"…and that's assuming you can find someone who can get as close to Hotchner as I can; someone he trusts..." Reid knew that at this moment, the inmate wanted to verify his own sanity far more than relive the Unit Chief's torment. He was desperate to check the recording for those elusive images of his father. More than desperate; _starving_ for validation of his only worthwhile possession; his mind. "…so you tell me what I want…and I'll _show_ you what you want. Or…I leave."

Spencer glanced over his shoulder at the door, managing to look as though exiting might be his choice no matter what Lewis said.

The prisoner's mouth was working. In the observation room, Morgan tensed. He wasn't sure if Rat-Face's body language presaged attack or acquiescence. Or maybe a stroke.

"_Fine!_" Peter spat the word, a string of saliva threading its way down his chin. Rapid blinking and tight lips told Reid to be wary. Lewis didn't like to lose. At the moment Morgan had arrested him, he'd taunted the agent, making sure he got the last word. Spencer wouldn't put it past the man to feed him false information about his methods as a form of vengeance.

_I'll just have to be on my toes. 'Cause I've only got one shot at this. Once he sees the next video, we're done._

Reid steadied himself with even, regular breathing. "Well? Instruct me. If I think it's worth it, maybe we'll take a little study-break." Once again, he tilted his phone in teasing invitation.

"Come on, Mr. Lewis. Let's get this…_show_…" He gave the cell a slight toss. "…on the road."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis really _did_ have a fine mind.

It just went off-track on occasion. Maybe if someone he'd respected or admired had been there to rein him in, none of the horrors he'd authored would have happened. He sort of knew that.

So now, Peter tried to rein _himself_ in. After all, he was the only one present worthy of respect or admiration. _In the presence of the stupid, one must harness one's abilities and forge ahead._

Peter took his time.

Peter ran some equations in his head.

_If I give Dr. Reid everything…all the information he needs to wreak havoc in the FBI…he'll be done with me. He won't return. And he sure as hell won't leave his phone with me so I can enjoy watching sad, little Aaron lose it whenever I need a pick-me-up. _

_As I see it, I have two possible courses. The Doctor is a chump; seems like an honest man…a man of his word…So I could extract a promise from him to bring me recordings of his work on an ongoing basis once he knows how to program people, or I could mislead him. And when he returns to find out why things aren't working, I can see little Aaron fall apart again and again…depending on how long I can string his 'training' out. Yeeessss…I haven't lost yet. _

_And I won't._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid watched the gears turn in Lewis's mind.

All he could be certain of was that the man wouldn't throw in the towel without a struggle. He needed to be on the lookout for a trap, or misinformation, or a loophole, or a strategy that would prolong their unsavory relationship.

_Remember what Gideon taught you: don't plan too far ahead. Stay flexible. Roll with it._

He waited.

At last, Lewis leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Alright. You want to know how to bend someone to your will? First of all, you have to get them talking. Find out what lives deep inside them. Find the primal. Their fears are what you'll use against them. But to make them listen in the first place, to get into their heads and make them do your bidding…find their deepest _desires_."

Reid swallowed. He had a feeling he was going to hear some things he shouldn't.

"Now, since Agent Hotchner is on both our minds…" Peter's avid glance lit on the phone Spencer was keeping well out of reach. "…let's use him as an example."

XXXXXXXX

In the observation room, Morgan's stomach twisted.

He switched off the camera.

He was sure Hotch wouldn't want to know whatever Lewis had excavated concerning his deepest, most primal desires.

Morgan was pretty sure he didn't want to know either.


	80. Sad, Little Aaron

"You know, every time you stay over, Mudge gets a little fatter."

Rossi cast a judgmental eye at the few bites Hotch had taken out of his sandwich. "Wish you wouldn't leave him so much in the way of leftovers." The Unit Chief's eyes were unfocused, tracking some inner landscape. "Hey!" Dave backhanded his friend's uninjured shoulder.

"Huh? What?" dark eyes blinked up at the older man. "Sorry…?"

Rossi relieved Hotch of his still-full plate, clearing it to the coffee table where, tail wagging, Mudgie immediately took the sandwich into protective custody.

Dave let his eyes rove over his guest: mussed hair, worried eyes, favoring his injury a little more than a couple of days ago. He frowned. "Shoulder bothering you?"

"Little bit." Hotch shifted position, pulling himself up to ease pressure on his midriff. "I'm kind of sore all over. I don't get that, unless…" His eyes fastened on Rossi's, a shadow of concern passing through them. "Dave? Did I…_do_…something? When you guys set off that trigger? The one about…about Haley?"

The older man considered sidestepping the issue, but these days Hotch was brooding and overthinking everything. Brushing him off would add fuel to his introspective fire. Sighing, Rossi crossed his arms and looked down at his friend's wary expression. "If you're sore, it's probably because of Morgan."

"Oh, God. Did he have to restrain me? Did I attack someone? Dave?"

"Shhhhh…calm down, Aaron." Rossi sat on the edge of the coffee table, bringing him to eye level with the Unit Chief. "You didn't attack anyone. Morgan held you. That's all. He didn't restrain you; he held you."

For the space of several heartbeats the men maintained eye contact. Dave tried to project a peaceful aspect. Hotch just struggled to process what he'd been told, inspecting the words for their worst case scenario. Finally, Rossi couldn't take it. He'd thought a corner had been turned when Aaron had been talking to Reid. It had seemed as though their leader was making his way back from the dark pit where Peter Lewis had sent him. But now…

"You didn't attack anyone. You didn't exhibit any violent tendencies. Understand?"

"H-held me? Morgan?" Somehow the words and images wouldn't coalesce. Derek wasn't the type who'd embrace another man at the drop of a hat.

"Held you." After a few more moments, there was still doubt in Hotch's eyes. "Dammit, Aaron. Held you like this." Rossi did a fair approximation of Morgan's enveloping bear hug, although he took more care to avoid aggravating the much-abused shoulder.

Immobilized and muffled, Hotch's voice emerged from the depths of the hold. "Why?"

"Because you needed it. He did, too." Aaron felt the vibration of Dave's chuckle. "Matter of fact, we all wanted in on it; Reid…me... But Morgan beat us to it." The levity left his voice. "Held you. Like this. Didn't restrain you. Held you. Got it?"

"The answer's on that video, isn't it…" Not a question; a statement laced with dread.

"The only answer you need is that big, tough Derek Morgan shared his strength and took a little comfort for himself by being able to do so."

"But…"

"Let it go, Aaron. Trust us. Let it go…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"The thing about getting into people's heads, Dr. Reid, is you need to use something they want so much, so deeply, that they don't see you walking all over their brain cells until it's too late." Lewis's voice was soft and sibilant; appropriate for divulging secrets.

Reid quelled the rippling revulsion he felt and leaned in close to catch every word. A sub-level of his mind found irony in the fact that he was modeling his seemingly eager attention on the greedy, avid behavior Lewis had exhibited during his first viewing of the video where Hotch's heart did an encore; breaking yet again for the woman he'd loved.

"If you can find their deepest wish, and make them think it's coming true, they won't notice you slipping past their defenses." Caught up in tales of his own genius, Lewis giggled and licked his lips, remembering…

"Now, I'll give you an example using Agent Hotchner. Or, as I think of him…sad, little Aaron." The inmate's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Do you know why I call him that? Can you guess?"

No way was Spencer going to get involved in a guessing game about the inner workings of his Unit Chief. He shook his head and tried not to cringe away from Lewis's repellant presence.

"Well, of course not. That's why you're riding on my coattails, isn't it?" Peter's lips lifted in a sneer. When his eyes took on a gloating gleam, Reid shivered. "I call him 'sad, little Aaron,' because Agent Hotchner's deepest, fondest, most secret wish harkens back to his childhood."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In the observation room, Morgan closed his eyes for a moment.

He'd known, he supposed. But he didn't want to hear his suspicions put into words. And certainly not words chosen by the likes of Rat-Face.

He didn't want to bear witness to this. He wanted to leave.

He'd be back, ready to step in, if Reid needed help. But for now…

Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out the half-burnt stick of sage. He felt around until he located the book of matches he'd been using. Grim-faced, he left the room, headed toward Lewis's cell. The guy deserved to suffer. Plain and simple.

_I got your back, Bossman. _

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"It's so simple, really. So basic…as are all things primal." Lewis continued lecturing his protégé. "Did you know Agent Hotchner had a rather difficult childhood? Did you know that about him, Dr. Reid?"

Spencer gave his head a slow shake. _Hotch, if this is true, I'll never let on that I know. I promise. But maybe it's a trick. I won't be able to judge unless I hear him out. Forgive me for not putting a stop to this, Hotch…_

Peter's eyes strayed to Reid's phone. "So. I've given you a little something. How about that study break you mentioned?"

"No. Not yet. You haven't given me anything useful, Mr. Lewis. I'm not nearly ready for recess." The young doctor's voice and eyes hardened. His hand tightened on the phone. "Get on with it. How does any of this relate to…how did you put it?... 'walking all over someone's brain cells?'"

Desperation flickered over the inmate's features, manifesting in tiny signs that were more like billboards screaming anxiety and obsession to Reid's profiler's sensibilities. Equally visible was the manful effort Peter put into suppressing himself.

"Fine…fine…study break later…fine…" His eyes glittered again with remembered enjoyment of turning Hotch's mind into his playground. But he wanted to get to a point where he could say he'd revealed enough to merit a replay of the video. He needed it more with each passing minute. _Hurry_.

"Sad, little Aaron was beaten and starved and abused and brought up in a loveless environment." He smiled. "Bet you didn't know that, did you? Well, it's true. So…the basic, primal thing Agent Hotchner wants with all his sad, little heart…is…?" Lewis did a slow lean toward his pupil, giving him the opportunity to supply the correct answer.

Closemouthed, Reid stared, barely able to conceal his hostility toward this vermin who was making light of something so tragic.

Peter gave up waiting. He wasn't really surprised. His expectations of the doctor's ability to follow his train of thought were low. "Sad, little Aaron wanted to be loved. Parental, particularly paternal…love. He never got what he needed, so he's carried the lack with him into adulthood." He shrugged. "He'll likely never recover from that kind of upbringing. And it feeds into his attitude toward sexual love, too. Can't just love 'em and leave 'em. Needs something deeper. Poor, little…"

"So how does that work into your, uh, technique?" Reid interrupted, cutting Lewis off. He didn't need to dwell on Hotch's inner, lifelong pain, nor on his boss's sex life.

Peter's chuckle was low, sinister. "I give him what he wants. He's suggestible, coming out of the drugs. I tell him I'm his father. I hold him and tell him he's a good boy. I talk incessantly, whispering all the things his real father never said. I…"

"I get it." Reid's tone was terse and forceful. He'd had enough. His nimble mind had made the connections.

He didn't need Lewis anymore. All he wanted was to get back to Quantico and Hotch. The young doctor briefly considered showing Peter the original video…the one he really wanted to see…the one without images of his father.

But he wanted Morgan to record Rat-Face suffering a trigger being pulled. He wanted it for Hotch. He'd tell the Unit Chief what he'd done and give him the choice of viewing it…or not.

Besides, Garcia had gone to a lot of extra trouble unearthing the indictment of Lewis, Sr. to work her final magical metamorphosis.

"I think it's time for that study break, Mr. Lewis. Don't you?"

Quivering, the inmate leaned toward the phone Reid was holding mere inches from his eyes.


	81. Parting Gifts

Morgan didn't share Reid's forgiving spirit.

Moving fast, he burned the smudge stick down to the nub, blowing on it to hasten the process. He wafted it throughout Lewis's cell. When there was little left, he stubbed it out on the wall, rubbing the aromatic ashes in as deeply as he could. He wanted the scent to hit the inmate like a fist. He wanted it to linger as long as possible.

Finished, he hurried back to the observation room, arriving just in time to see Reid holding his phone up to Lewis's nose. The young doctor's face melded sorrow and grim determination.

Morgan could only imagine what else the inmate had said concerning Hotch's childhood that would engender such an expression. Anger seething in his own soul, he switched the camera back on.

He wanted to catch every second of Lewis's reaction.

_Hotch might not want to see it in the end, but if it goes the way Pretty Boy thinks it will, I sure as hell won't mind enjoying it a time or two._

XXXXXXXXXXX

Peter leaned toward Reid's phone, biting his bottom lip with anxious anticipation; unaware of drawing blood in his dizzy eagerness.

He was torn. Not just in two, but in several pieces. Each bit quivering with indecision, dread, and desire. On the one hand, he realized he _wanted_ to see his father again. After the initial shock, a tiny part of him had wanted to believe that the man was alive…somewhere, _any_where. At the same time, he knew that was impossible. Still…

Another part of him was gibbering with terror that the images had all been in his mind. He'd known since he was a child that sanity could be the bargaining chip on the table for a high IQ. Eavesdropping on his mother and father after they'd been to a parent-teacher conference at his grade school, he'd heard them discussing the results of the standard intelligence tests administered to every child. A counselor had congratulated them on having such a bright son; one destined for potential greatness…_or_...in the next breath she'd cautioned them to be on the lookout for mental problems.

_Anything from phobias and obsessions to antisocial, aberrant behavior._ Lewis could still hear his mother's voice, fraught with pride and fear late that night as she and her husband conferred over the kitchen table, believing their son was in bed asleep. _What do you do with a child like that? What do __**we**__ do?_

Peter had been terrified at his parents' uncertainty. He'd had nightmares of being sent away to someplace 'special.'

It wasn't until this very moment, sitting in jail, waiting for Dr. Reid's video to play, that Lewis realized his nightmare had come true. He was in that 'special' place after all. The insight hit hard. Bile surged upward, stinging his throat. In an effort to conceal his reaction, Lewis swallowed; several convulsive bobbings of his Adam's apple which Spencer couldn't fail to notice.

"Are you alright, Mr. Lewis?"

"Just play the damn video." His voice was strained…scratchy.

Reid obliged.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The scene had played out in his mind a thousand times.

Peter stared. Fascinated. Fixated. Dreading the moment, but impatient to get past all the preamble.

He wanted to see the part where the Frisbee landed…the part where his father's hand had intruded…_Or maybe not?_...and where Lewis, Sr.'s blurred visage had appeared…_But __**had**__ it?_...

The camera panned around…a Frisbee landed almost at Dr. Reid's feet. A small boy darted in and picked it up, flashing a wide, white grin at the man with the camera…

When the focus swung back to Hotch with no appearance by his father, a whimper escaped Peter before he could stifle it. _It wasn't there? It __**wasn't**__ there! Which means…which means…_ His brain skittered over the scent of sage; inescapable now for days…seeping into his dreams…curling around his thoughts every waking moment, too. The shock of not seeing Lewis, Sr. and the implications that had for his sanity were ruining his ability to enjoy the rest of the show.

And he did so want to see sad, little Aaron crumple into a keening, crying, beaten, broken ruin of a man.

Peter pulled himself together as best he could. _Don't want to miss what's coming next!_

He watched the delightfully anticipated drama unfold. Hotch scrabbled at the large canister of dead, torn flesh and blood. The idiot muscle-agent…_Morgan?..._stepped in and lent a helping hand.

Lewis's pulse quickened. His mouth filled with saliva he was so hungry for that wonderful, lovely anguished howl.

Agent Hotchner froze…Agent Hotchner sank to his knees…An agonized scream from the depths of a tormented soul should have rung forth…but didn't…

…and Peter Lewis vomited, eyes watering, unable to blink or pull their focus from the video.

XXXXXXXXX

Reid knew.

But he hadn't known the inmate's reaction would include retching up the contents of his stomach. It was perfect in a way. It gave the young doctor an excuse to cut and run.

He recoiled in genuine disgust, standing even as his hand held the phone steady before Peter's eyes for a few more tortuous seconds.

"Oh…Jeeeezz! What the…?!" Spencer flipped the phone shut, leaving the inmate with the last audio and visual images branded across his frontal cortex.

XXXXXXXXX

Agent Hotchner had dropped to his knees, but something was…off.

No…a _lot_ of things were off!

It happened so quickly. No warning. Like a lead pellet shooting into Peter's brain. And then exploding.

It wasn't sad, little Aaron. It was Lewis, Sr., the sonorous tones of his voice replacing the keening wail Peter had expected.

Garcia had drawn from the court recording of the man's indictment. With masterful skill she diced and spliced and adjusted tone and levels, manufacturing an occasional word with her own digital magic, pulling from the speech Peter's father had made about how shocked he was at the allegations leveled against him and his wife. How disappointed he was to know that the children, people's sons and daughters, to whom they'd catered, had turned on them in the most vile way.

Quaking with emotion bordering on tears, Lewis, Sr.'s words scorched their way from the grave into his son's memory, destined to remain there like permanent scars.

"Why…_why_…? We gave you everything. All our hopes. All our lives. _You_ killed us…taking everything remaining of our legacy…it was _you_… liar…abuser…my destroyer…my son…my end…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Regurgitated liquid in his throat, all Peter could manage was an indecipherable, strangled, gargling protest.

Too late.

Reid was gone.

All that remained were the fateful words and the last fleeting image of his father's decimated, shrunken face, turning toward him in disappointed accusation. It kept Lewis company for the rest of his stay, as he sniveled and shook in his sage-scented cell.


	82. Aftermath

Reid's last impression of Peter Lewis was the man's strangled cries sounding concurrently with the disgusted expletives of the guard from the hall as, entering the interrogation room, he was greeted by the odor of vomit.

The young doctor made good use of his long legs. He wanted to distance himself from the inmate and all he represented. Almost loping, he rounded the corner, grateful for the diminished sound of Lewis's gagging, garbled attempts to call him back.

Inside the observation room, Morgan stood over the camera with a satisfied smile. He looked up as Reid entered. Concern replaced his smug expression when Spencer plopped down in a chair, back to the one-way mirror overlooking Lewis's protesting exit.

"You okay, kid?"

"Uh-huh."

Morgan turned off the equipment. There was nothing left to film. The interrogation room was now empty. "Reid, what's going on? I went ahead and saged Rat-Face's cell. Couldn't listen to that dude talk about Hotch growin' up, but…" He took a deep breath. "…if it'll help to talk about stuff he said, I'll listen." After a pause… "So, what's up with you?"

Spencer shook his head, shoulders slumping. "Nothing. I'm tired." He looked up at his worried teammate. "You know how you keep it together when you're doing something, but when it's over, you kind of let go and fall apart 'cause you _can_, without it making a difference to anyone or to how things'll turn out? Well…I'm just…just tired," he repeated. "Just falling apart a little. 'Cause it's okay to do that now."

"Mmmm." Morgan began packing things away, giving Reid space to breathe. When he was finished, he shouldered the equipment and turned toward the younger agent. "C'mon. Let's go get something to eat, and then we'll call Rossi. Tell him it's over and we're coming home." Derek couldn't help a surge of triumphant glee. "You think about telling Hotch he's gonna be fine, Pretty Boy. _Really_ fine. Think about watching those shadows he carries around fading out. That'll help get you past whatever bad taste Rat-Face left in your mouth."

The thought of being the bearer of good news _did_ begin to work on Reid.

By the time they left the Garrett County jail, both men sported small, hopeful smiles.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan and Reid treated themselves to an excellent dinner by way of celebration.

Derek kept insisting they needed to get rid of 'Rat-Face's bad taste.' He dragged his teammate with him in search of something worthy. When both were sated with filet mignon and lobster, Morgan pulled out his phone and dialed Rossi.

"Hey. Good news, man. We're done. On our way home tomorrow. Reid's got something to tell you…" He passed the phone to a solemn, but much more relaxed Spencer.

"Kid? What happened?" Rossi's voice had an anxious edge to it.

"I got what I needed. I don't think there are any more triggers in Hotch, but…" The young doctor's words faded out, cluing Dave in that this might be a good news/bad news situation.

The older man sounded tentative. "Okaaaay. He'll be glad to hear that. But…what's the rest, Reid?"

"Lewis told me how he got into Hotch's head. And I think it'd be a good idea to do it again and maybe find a way to make sure Hotch's alright with everything…with _himself_. You know…reassure him?"

A few beats of silence fell while Rossi weighed Reid's words and tone. "That sounds like a plan. Why do you sound so, I dunno…_un_sure?...about it?"

Definite discomfort bled over the connection when Spencer continued. "It has to do with being a father figure. And with Hotch's past…his childhood. And I don't know what stuff you know about him, Rossi, but, well…I think it'd be better for him if we _didn't_ know. I mean, if _he_ didn't know that we knew. And I…I just…"

Morgan watched as Reid regressed into full-out, nervous lip-chewing. He took back the phone from the young genius's unprotesting fingers.

"Hey, man. It's me again. Look, the kid did a bang-up job. Really amazing. He's just feeling the aftermath now. He'll be better when we get home." He lowered his voice. "And maybe we should talk in private before deciding to do anything to Bossman. I mean, without him there, you know? And maybe you should see the video I got of Reid's last session with Rat-Face."

Rossi's reply was pensive. "Tell the kid not to worry. We'll touch bases before we involve Hotch in anything."

"How's he doing anyway?"

"Good and bad. Healing takes time. But he'll be pleased to hear there aren't any more triggers or anchors or whatever waiting to blow up. As for the rest, it's hard for me to make any judgment calls without knowing more. Whatever's got Reid upset, tell him we'll work it out. The worst is over, right?"

"Yeah. It is." Morgan spoke with a relieved sigh. "We'll be home tomorrow."

"Good. And good job. Tell Reid. We'll figure out all the rest about Hotch's childhood and whatever else popped up when you guys get here. G'night."

Rossi closed the connection feeling buoyant. No matter what was worrying their resident genius, progress had been made and he didn't think much more could go wrong.

Until he turned and saw a very quiet, very pale Unit Chief supporting himself against the doorjamb; eyes twin pools of wariness.

"Dave? Wh-what about my…my childhood?"


	83. The Crap-Weasel Conundrum

Hotch's eyes bored into Rossi's.

"What about my…" He couldn't help a nervous catch in his voice; swallowed it as best he could. "…about my childhood?" Dave's features sagged with sympathetic sorrow which, more than anything he could have said, clued Hotch in on this whole saga having undercurrents he'd never expected would reach the surface.

Rossi went into evasive maneuver #1: redirection. "That was Morgan and Reid. It's over, Aaron. They're coming home tomorrow. The kid says there aren't any more triggers. You're free." He offered a hopeful smile. "Isn't that great? A tremendous relief?"

"You mentioned my childhood, Dave. I heard you." Hotch's lips pressed together until the pressure rendered them bloodless.

Rossi was at a loss. Evasive maneuver #2, reinterpretation, verged on lying, on telling his best friend he'd misunderstood and was taking things out of context. After all they'd been through, Dave couldn't do that. He sighed and shelved his repertoire of slippery tactics. "Your childhood was mentioned. In all honesty, I don't know the details, so I'm not the one to ask. We'll have to wait for the boys to get back."

Hotch hadn't moved, but something about his aspect had changed. _He's scared. More than scared. Terrified. Awww…no…_Rossi felt a lump growing in his own throat. _For_ _God's sake, he's had enough..._

"Aaron, I don't think there's an agent in the Bureau who hasn't been through some personal flames and still carries the singe marks. Why else would we choose to do what we do? Why else devote ourselves to righting wrongs and stopping bad guys?"

The Unit Chief remained still and silent. If Dave had used his author's sensibilities to describe him, he would have said there was an internal trembling only detectable by a shimmer in the eyes…a shrinking in the soul. Standing face to face, though, words were inadequate. Rossi's heart cracked a little. _We have so many weapons that can destroy, but precious few resources to put the pieces back together._

"Aaron, I'm a profiler. We all are. Reid. Morgan. All of us. Just because we don't talk about things doesn't mean we live in ignorance of them." He paused, hoping for some sign of life other than dark, tragic regard. "Look, maybe it would be a good idea for us to talk about whatever's bothering you before the guys get back. Wha'd'ya say?"

Hotch blinked. With the slow, measured movements of a sleep-walker, he turned and padded away. Rossi heard footsteps plodding down the hall and across the foyer, trudging up the stairs. For a moment he deliberated his options.

Then, he set out in pursuit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Maybe we should talk about whatever's bothering you before we get back." Morgan didn't like the way Reid was biting and chewing at his own lips. He would prefer the young genius use them for speech. Gainful communication might save them from the punishment their owner was inflicting on them.

"C'mon. Wha'd'ya say?" He tipped his head toward his hotel room door, trying to look inviting. "Mini-bar's stocked. My treat."

Scowling, looking fiercer than the simple suggestion to share a drink warranted, Reid nodded. He followed Derek inside, plopping down on the foot of the bed with an unceremonious grunt. The older agent gave him a sidelong look before crossing to the small cupboard and adjoining refrigerator tucked under a counter.

"Name your poison, kid. We got tequila, scotch, vodka…"

"I don't care. Just pick." The young genius sounded angry or impatient…or both.

Morgan gave him a calculating glance before selecting a tiny bottle of vodka. After a moment, he selected two. Then a third. _What the hell…I can do the driving tomorrow. And it'll be nothing compared to the hangover Bossman must've had. Hard to know what goes on in a mind like his, but the kid needs to relax._

In silence Derek raided the fruit juices and mixers chilling in the fridge. With mildly sinister intent he made himself a rum and cola, using one of the shot-bottles. Back turned, he blocked Reid's view as he emptied the three vodkas into a glass, topping them off with pineapple juice.

"Here ya go, Pretty Boy." Morgan handed the glass brimming with cheerful, sunny yellow to his teammate. "Drink up. _Salud_…" He set an example by taking a healthy gulp of his own mostly-cola concoction.

Reid sipped. The tart taste pulled him from his reverie for a moment. "Pineapple. I like pineapple."

"I know." _Now suck it down, genius. Put the rationalization and the isolation on hold. Talk to me._ To all appearances, Morgan had no designs on doing anything other than enjoying a companionable interlude enhanced by alcohol and camaraderie.

When Spencer's glass was a third gone, he turned his frown toward his teammate. "Morgan, what is it with fathers? How come they're such…such…" Vodka had curtailed the young doctor's eloquence.

"How come they're such crap-weasels?"

"Yeah! Yeah…crap-weasels…How come they're such crap-weasels?...Yeah…"

Morgan hid his grin at this version of his colleague. "First of all, they're not. You know that, but I'm guessing this has something to do with Rat-Face and Hotch, right?"

"And…yeah…" Reid gazed into the tropical liquid and its declining level in his glass. "Did you hear any of that stuff Lewis said?"

Derek's amusement vanished. "No. I told you; I went and saged his cell. You wanna tell me what he said?" He sighed. This wasn't information he wanted to hear, but Reid had taken the lead…had taken on Rat-Face… had taken the brunt of the negative fallout attending the encounter. If he needed to share the burden, Morgan was willing.

Spencer hesitated, filling the conversational gap by taking a few more sips. At last, he looked up, eyes damp. "I thought my father was bad. For leaving. For never getting in touch. But…but Hotch's father was…was…"

"A crap-weasel?"

Reid nodded. His expression making Morgan's heart sink for what it presaged. "Hotch's dad hit him and…and starved him…and I guess he never said any of the stuff kids need to hear. Most of all, if Lewis got it right, Hotch wanted to be loved." The corners of the young agent's mouth turned downward, trembling with compassion. "Hotch was never loved…never _loved_…" His head drooped, unruly hair falling forward as he considered the enormity of a loveless upbringing.

Derek could tell this was where he was supposed to step in and relieve the pressure of this unwelcome, intensely personal knowledge. He couldn't. It was terrible to hear. It set off all manner of supposition and visual images. It would have been more bearable if all he knew of his leader was the flint-eyed, steel-jawed, rigidly moral Unit Chief. But he knew the Hotch of soulful eyes and generous heart and noble soul. One of the few men Morgan would take a bullet for. Not because it was his duty, but because such creatures were rarities whose existence was a beacon of hope for all the sad, struggling people who needed beacons.

He raised his head, fixing Reid with a steady gaze.

"Hotch is a father." Derek felt emotion lump its way into his throat, and told himself it was the just the liquor. "There are a lot of crap-weasels, but sometimes there's a Hotch."

Spencer blinked. With the gradual speed of a spring thaw, light crept into his eyes, warming their amber depths. He nodded.

"Yeah. Hotch is a father, too." His slightly drunken smile blossomed. "Thanks, Morgan."

"Any time. Finish your drink and get some rest. Tomorrow we're gonna figure out how to keep one of the good fathers runnin' strong."


	84. Who's Your Daddy!

Rossi correctly assumed that Hotch had gone to ground in the guestroom.

He approached the closed door, pausing to listen. Nothing. Silence.

Raising a hand, Dave gave a gentle rap with one knuckle. "Aaron? May I come in?" Nothing. Silence. He puffed out a small, weary sigh and shifted from importunate to commanding. "Aaron, I'm coming in."

Inside, Hotch was sitting on the edge of the bed farthest away, back to the door. His injured shoulder and its sling prevented him from slumping, but his posture managed to convey that he was collapsed in on himself nonetheless.

Rossi began to circle the bed which would bring the two men face to face, then thought better of it. Hiding was important to Hotch. It was why he'd cultivated his stoic work-façade, so no one would see the lacerations in his heart and soul when lives were ended, or changed forever by trauma and torture. Dave stood at the opposite side of the bed and spoke to his friend's back in a tone that carried no judgment.

"Why does it matter if people know, Aaron?"

Long pause. Long enough to underline how unwelcome Hotch found this conversation. "Because then I can't pretend."

Rossi didn't like the sound of it. The words had been said with deep sorrow, bordering on defeat. "Pretend. What are you pretending?"

"Doesn't matter." Muffled, thick voice, filled with shame.

"Alright. It doesn't matter what. So answer me this: _why_ are you pretending?" Silence stretched on. "Aaron?"

"It makes me feel better. About myself."

Dave rubbed his beard with one hand as he studied Hotch's back. _He's smart enough to see through that. Typical victim's reaction to long-term abuse. But knowing that on an intellectual level hasn't broken through…hasn't touched his heart._ Rossi made a small, frustrated noise before moving around the bed's perimeter to take a seat beside the younger man.

He studied Hotch's profile; what he could see of it. Aaron seemed determined to keep his focus down and turned slightly away from his friend. "How you feel about yourself isn't how others feel about you. You do know that, don't you?"

"I don't really want to talk about this."

"No kidding." Rossi watched Hotch's discomfort grow under his steady regard.

"You're not gonna leave me alone are you..." More statement than question.

"What do _you_ think, Aaron?" Dave leaned into the Unit Chief, giving him a gentle bump, adding an affectionate undertone to the exchange. When not even the tiniest glimmer of a grimace of a beginning of a trace of a smile was forthcoming, Rossi got serious.

"Look…I've had to talk to you before about your ego. The part of you that thinks you're responsible for all the ills of the world that could have been stopped by a human hand or a human decision. You don't have that power. I think you understand that now. Well, this is a branch from that same tree. You're not responsible for what other people choose to do to you. You aren't the arbiter of their behavior. And…" His voice lowered, imparting very private information. "…you've never deserved the bad things that have happened to you."

Rossi's eyes, trained to capture every nuance and shadow, saw the almost subcutaneous flinch. _So that's it. He thinks he's earned bad things. Probably thinks good things are an accident and will be taken away if some higher power notices he's the recipient._ He sighed. _No…that's not what he 'thinks.' It's what he feels. There's no logic to it and it's instilled in him on the deepest level; the childhood one that dictates so much of the rest of our lives. And __**that's**__ the place from which Lewis drew his ammunition. Early life and primal emotions._

With the gentlest pressure he could manage in consideration of the Unit Chief's injury, Dave draped an arm across his shoulders. "I know this is hard. And I know a part of you _does_ understand what I'm saying, Aaron. We might be jumping at shadows, though. Let's wait for Reid and Morgan to get here and fill us in. And I'll say once more…when we see bad things happen to you…and we see you survive them…all it does is make us proud of your strength, and grateful that you're still with us."

Placing a big, Italian kiss on Hotch's temple, Rossi rose and walked to the door where he turned for a last look.

"I'll be up for a while. If you feel like talking, come on down."

Somehow, he knew Hotch wouldn't take him up on the invitation.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Do you have to drive so _loud…_?"

Morgan grinned at Reid's moaning complaint. He was sorry the kid had a hangover, but had no regrets at all for mixing the lethal pineapple concoction of the previous evening. Along with the nausea and headache, the young genius seemed to have retained the gist of their discussion.

He was calmer about the nature of fatherhood. However, he was still anxious about confronting Hotch.

After a few miles and a stop for coffee and a mild breakfast of toast for Reid…and _juevos rancheros_ for Morgan, they continued the drive home able to hold a half-decent conversation.

"So how d'you think we should handle it when we get there?" Derek glanced at his passenger. The doctor had slid down in his seat until his nose was level with the dashboard against which his knees were braced. _The people we pass probably think he's a little kid, barely able to see out the window._ Morgan shrugged. _In some ways he __**is**__ like a little kid._ "I'm thinking we go straight to Rossi's. We on the same page, Pretty Boy?"

"Yeah. Sure." Reid chewed his lip, but not too strenuously. "We need to talk without Hotch listening in, though."

Derek nodded. "He's been good about going away when we ask him to so far. No reason to think he won't do the same this time out." He looked over at his passenger again. "So what else is bothering you?"

Spencer shook his head in a half-distracted manner. "Not sure what's best."

"Wha'd'you mean?"

"Assuming we can get Hotch relaxed enough…like in a semi-trance…_without_ drugs…the person who tries to follow in Lewis's footsteps should take on a paternal role. You know…talk like Hotch's dad, only say all the things he never got to hear. Then slip inside his defenses and tell him he's not afraid of his gun, or the color red, or neck injuries, or any of the other stuff."

"Glad you have an eidetic memory, Reid. 'Cause I didn't film that part and wasn't there to hear it."

"But that's the problem! I…I'm…I'm _not_ a father figure! Especially not to Hotch." He scrunched down even lower in his seat, muttering. "Maybe a father figure to Clooney…or Mudge. But not Hotch."

"_That's_ what's worrying you?"

"Yeah! I'm the only one who knows all the stuff that Lewis said he did. I'm the only one who kind of has a handle on the technique he used." Reid rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands and bordered dangerously close to whining…

… "_I'm_ the one who has to be Hotch's...Hotch's _dad_!"


	85. Trophy

While Morgan and Reid were making their way home, Hotch was trying to get through breakfast without making eye contact.

Rossi was not amused.

He was tired of watching his best friend pick at food instead of enjoying it. In fact, he was tired of the supreme lack of joy he sensed in the man's entire existence. Now that Hotch had dared to name his inner demon…the one that made him feel he had to pretend to be deserving of things others considered birthright…Dave wanted to drag the thing out into the light, squealing and squirming, and stomp it into oblivion.

With that kind of momentum building up inside, it was hard to remember to go gently with an injured man who'd been knocked off his foundations by an insidious unsub. So Rossi sat across from his Unit Chief, regarding him with narrowed eyes over the rim of a coffee cup.

"How're you feeling this morning, Aaron?"

"I'm okay." He poked at a mound of hash browns his host had heaped onto his plate, then, belatedly remembering his manners... "Uh, thanks for asking. You?"

Rossi inhaled a deep breath aimed at prolonging his patience. "One of these days I'm going ask, and you're going to respond in an _ebullient_ manner…the manner of a man delighting in his life rather than plodding through his existence."

Hotch hesitated, fork poised over the crispy perfection of Dave's cooking. After a wavering moment, he set the utensil down, leaning it in a proper-etiquette position against the rim of his plate. He licked his lips, but didn't look up. "There's a lot of good in my life, and I'm _grateful_ for it. Isn't that enough?"

"Not by a long shot."

"Well…sorry if that bothers you, Dave, but it's good enough for me."

"Yeah, that's the problem. You settle for things in your personal life. It's odd, because you strive and push and fight for the best possible outcome in your work. It'd be nice if you could apply some of that commitment and vigor to other goals, like…oh, I dunno…being happy?"

A few heartbeats of silence told Rossi his little outburst was being examined. He considered that a hopeful sign. When Hotch replied, he sounded like someone who was trying very hard to say the right thing in order to avoid an argument.

"I'm not _un_happy."

"You're miserable."

"Well, I'm not at my best right _now_…"

"Good. Tell me what's wrong right _now_. Don't think. Just say it."

"My…my shoulder hurts."

"And?"

"And I miss Jack."

"And?"

"And I'm…I'm…"

"Say it!"

"…ashamed."

Rossi's prompts became soft, barely carrying breath. "Ashamed of...?"

"Of all the trouble I've caused."

A tremor in Dave's lips signaled his disagreement, but he continued digging for more. "And?"

"And I'm still scared." At last Hotch's eyes flicked up and connected with Rossi's. He searched the older man's features for signs of both judgment and verdict. _He goaded this out of me. So how's he going to handle it? And it'd be great if Morgan and Reid walked in right now and put an end to this._

But Dave's face was inscrutable. "Reid said there were no more triggers. So, scared of what?"

Aaron's eyes dropped, became unfocused as he sought an honest answer within himself. His head hung. "Scared that all of this…" He cradled his injured arm, using it as a symbol of the entire Peter Lewis escapade. "…will change who I am. And how…others…see me."

Rossi rubbed a hand across his beard. "Nooooo…That's not it. I think you're the only one who judges Aaron Hotchner so harshly; the only one who thinks Aaron Hotchner isn't quite good enough." Rocking back in his chair so that the front legs hovered an inch above the floor, Dave crossed his arms, peering at his colleague like a latter-day Freud. And, like the famous father of psychoanalysis, considered the childhood and the parental relations that were such a stumbling block for poor Hotch.

"I may be out of line here, Aaron, but I need to ask. Would it be accurate to say you've always felt you should be a trophy? A trophy son? A trophy husband? Trophy father?"

It was a mild question. No one could point to any part of it and call it offensive or cruel. But Hotch's face drained of both color and expression. He stared. Alarmed, Rossi pulled himself straighter, the chair's front legs banging down onto the tiled floor. He saw a vacancy open up in the younger man's eyes. Dave's voice dropped to a murmur.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid was still a little wobbly when they arrived at Rossi's mansion.

He squinted his way up the walk to the front door, plodding behind Morgan and his camera equipment as though the bigger man was clearing some sort of path. In reality, Spencer didn't want to be the first through the door. Or the first to come face to face with Hotch.

He _did_ look forward to seeing light in his leader's eyes when he assured him that Lewis's triggers had played themselves out, but Reid was concerned that a seasoned profiler like the Unit Chief would, at some point during the conversation, become suspicious that those very private, closely-held secrets everyone keeps were now public property. Or at least not as sacrosanct as they had been.

So when Rossi opened the door with a hearty greeting and Mudgie by his side, the young genius stayed in the background.

"Come on in, children. Welcome." The senior agent ushered his teammates into the foyer. "Freshen up if you feel the need. Otherwise, let's gather in the den." His eyes shifted toward the rooms deeper in the house, his voice lowering. "Hotch's already there. Seems to feel safer in a smaller, darker room."

Morgan frowned. "Safer? Something happen?"

"Just a little self-examination. He's had a rough time of it. Not just today. This whole venture from start to finish." Rossi raised his brows at the newcomers. "It _is_ finished, isn't it?"

Derek glanced at Reid, scuffing his feet in the hallway. "Yeah. About that…maybe Pretty Boy should be the one to ask."

Dave took in the reluctant bearing of their youngest agent and felt a frisson of concern. "Okay, then…why don't we sit down and talk. I'll pour you guys a drink."

Reid went pale, large eyes brimming with dread.

"What's wrong?" Rossi sounded baffled.

Morgan grinned, nudging his young colleague down the hallway. "Nothing, man. Kid just had a little too much pineapple juice last night."

"Pineapple juice?"

"From a seriously lethal pineapple."


	86. Validation

Hotch didn't move when Morgan and Rossi entered the den, chatting in low tones; Reid trailing behind.

His eyes flickered up and then down. He tried not to look like a miserable, huddled mess, but he was sure his inner image of himself was now crystal clear and clarion-loud to his teammates. They were profilers, after all. And Dave had been able to ferret out the depths and demons of his soul with very little effort.

_Trophy. No…not just trophy. Even worse. Trophy wannabe. Never quite making the grade._

He hoped they'd ignore him. Or be good enough at pretending so that he wouldn't detect their changed opinion of their Unit Chief. Or be unable to see him if he kept very, very still; like predators whose visual acuity required movement to distinguish prey from a camouflaged background.

No such luck.

"Bossman!" Morgan strode toward him, coming to a stop close enough so Hotch had to crane his neck upward to meet his subordinate's gaze. "You'd'a been proud of Reid, man! He turned Rat-Face inside out and hung him out to dry. Got it on film if you wanna see, but the kid oughta be the one to tell you the good news." Grin gleaming wide, Derek motioned his shrinking, young colleague forward.

Aaron blinked, eyes fastened on Morgan. There was nothing judgmental in his demeanor. On the contrary, the man looked joyous, filled with confidence and happy anticipation. As a leader, Hotch just…couldn't…couldn't…crush such a hopeful aspect.

_They've given up their lives and their jobs for days now to help me. And I didn't even ask. They just stood up and took on all my problems as though they were their own._ He turned his attention to Spencer…

…and there were all the signs he'd been dreading to see.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid knew Morgan was only trying to be fair; to give credit where credit was due.

But as the older agent ushered him forward, presenting him to their leader with pride, Spencer wished Derek were the credit-grabbing sort. He would have been very happy to languish in a corner and let the spotlight shine on his co-worker who was fairly radiating self-assurance, and who didn't still have traces of lethal pineapple juice sluicing about through his veins, or images of a starved, beaten child lingering in his brain cells.

Then Spencer was standing in front of a woebegone Hotch who looked as though pineapples might have mugged him, too.

Reid chewed his lips. The Unit Chief pressed his together in a tight line.

Reid looked at his feet. Hotch looked at Reid's feet, too, unable to meet eyes in which he'd glimpsed such aversion and reluctance that he was sure the young agent was privy to all his childhood secrets. But propriety dictated that something was required of him. So Aaron's distant-thunder baritone rumbled forth…

"Reid…Morgan, too…thank you. You've gone far beyond what's called for in your job descriptions. Both of you…in fact, the whole team…always exceed my expectations. I don't know why I continue to be surprised by your loyalty and skill; I see those qualities every day. But they do still surprise me. Especially now, when you're not on the clock. Thank you."

It was gracious and eloquent and kind and all the things Reid knew his boss to be, but it bothered the young genius.

His lips stopped churning. His brows smoothed into a straight, contemplative line. Determination shoved his awkward shyness aside. He raised his gaze, ascending from Hotch's feet to his knees to his sling-encumbered chest, and finally to the Unit Chief's face.

For a moment the two men's eyes met…and held.

Spencer's began to fill. It was partly reaction to the emotional drain of the last few days, taking on a role in Lewis's presence that had nothing to do with his real self. It was partly the physical drain of too much vodka the night before. It was partly worry over what would come next. But mostly it was the thought that Hotch, a man he admired and toward whom he aspired, was surprised at the lengths to which his team would go to preserve and protect him. How could he believe they would do otherwise? How could he even entertain the notion?

In one of Reid's peculiar mental moments, bits and pieces showered down, rattling as they jockeyed for position, and ultimately formed an exquisite pattern…his profiler's mind saw the cause and effect of a battered childhood blossoming into a strange, unexpected flower.

He saw shattered shards assembling into a stained glass window, an unforeseen jewel.

His expressive lips trembled.

"Hotch, we're never _off_ the clock. It's _always_ running. Because…because…well…it's _you_."

XXXXXXXXXX

Off to the side, Rossi's smile went unnoticed.

As validation of Aaron, Reid's simple words struck to the heart of the matter. He only hoped they'd lodged in Hotch's heart, too.


	87. Bruise vs Tattoo

Hotch was uncomfortable being the center of attention.

It was one thing to take the lead in a team investigation; to be the conduit for information and instructions, but quite another when everyone was looking at _you_ and talking about _you_, rather than a case.

He blinked at Reid's words, but his mind couldn't quite embrace them. They fell too wide of the mark as far as he was concerned. They didn't jive with the wannabe-trophy self-portrait that lived inside him, so solidly ensconced that it would take something along the order of legislation to oust it. As always, when in doubt, his gracious Southern gentleman emerged.

"Reid…again…thank you. And Morgan's right: I'm proud of you." Hotch saw the earnest expression on his youngest agent's face and was secretly relieved. It was so categorically Spencer that it reassured him the prolonged exposure to Peter Lewis hadn't touched the young doctor deeply enough to do permanent damage or make him doubt himself. _Not like me. But I should have known that. Reid's smarter than I am; harder for Lewis to victimize. Even if he'd been drugged, Reid would have been more resistant to someone imposing conditions and controls on his brain._

"The…the triggers are all fired, Hotch." The young genius seemed more interested in focusing on his leader than accepting any laurels for himself. It was an attitude with which Aaron could identify. "But there's more to do. And…well, I think we need to help you get past this whole thing, you know? I mean what Lewis did to you. I think we _can_ help, but…but…" Distress surfaced in Reid's eyes.

Rossi would have let the awkward exchange continue, believing working through such encounters was a good social exercise for Reid, but he saw the way Hotch's eyes were mirroring Spencer's rising stress level. He intervened.

"Aaron, I don't have all the details, but Reid said earlier that he wants a strategy session with me and Morgan." He shrugged. "In private."

"Without me…" Hotch's statement cut to the heart of the matter. Knowing he was still being excluded deepened the shadows lurking in his eyes. _If the triggers are all fired, why do I still need to be sent away? Unless…it's to talk about my past…my childhood…which is what I overheard them doing on the phone with Dave, wasn't it?_

Morgan had retreated to the sidelines after he'd pushed Reid to center stage. He was keeping attentive watch on the exchange. Now, seeing the Unit Chief's mournful look, he remembered Spencer had mentioned the necessity of getting Hotch to enter a state so relaxed it bordered on trance. What they were doing now was counterproductive.

"Guys, I think Bossman should be in on the basics." Derek caught Aaron's grateful glance and felt even more strongly about this change in tactics. "I mean, look at him. If we keep him in the dark, he's gonna tie himself up in knots trying to predict the worst case, best case, and every little case in between. And you said you wanted him relaxed, kid." Morgan shook his head. "I don't think keeping secrets is the way to go, if that's the goal…know what I'm sayin'?"

Rossi subjected Hotch to long, calculating regard before nodding. "You might be right. The flip side of that coin, though, is he's a naturally wary man. He'll be on the defensive without even knowing it when it comes to specific relaxation techniques because…" Dave's voice trailed off. He didn't want to finish the thought: _…because he'll be scared stupid that he'll let something slip and all his secrets will come tumbling out. And if we tell him we already have a pretty good idea of what those secrets are, he'll be so consumed with his own inner angst and shame, he'll shut down completely._

Being naturally wary, as accused, Hotch was focused on Rossi's words, his mind leaping and catapulting to fill in the blanks just as Morgan had said he would. Only instead of imagining the worst, the best, and everything in between, Aaron went straight for the darker side of things. He always did when it came to self-analysis.

Rather than complete his sentence, Rossi expelled a frustrated puff of air. "Don't look like that, Aaron. We're not the enemy." He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "At least we won't run roughshod through your emotions like Lewis. We won't drug you."

"Wait a minute!" Reid's face lit up, despondent concern washing away as a possible solution bubbled up from the ever-brewing depths of his brain. "We _can_ drug him!"

Rossi and Morgan's expressions reflected interest. Hotch bypassed curiosity and went straight for dread. His voice came out a little shaky. "Wha…what?"

Dave shot him a quick glance, stepping closer to deliver small, gentle pats to their leader's chest, which had the unfortunate effect of making him feel captive rather than comforted. "Sh…sh…sh…shhhh…It's okay, Aaron. Let's hear him out."

"But…"

"Shhhhh…" Rossi's focus was on their young genius. He could appreciate Hotch's reservations about being drugged, but Dave placed more importance on moving forward to a place where they could put the entire Peter Lewis episode behind them. "Go on, kid. What're you thinking?"

Reid had a rather explosive way of speaking when a new idea both excited him and needed to be communicated immediately. He hunched his shoulders, leaning toward his teammates, hands gesturing in accompaniment. "Nothing bad, Hotch! Nothing bad! Your pain meds! You haven't been taking them have you? I mean you _never_ take stuff like that, so if we give you the maximum safe dosage, it'll probably put you half-asleep, which'd be _great_! So…"

The small, miserable sound that came from deep in Hotch's throat brought the genius's tirade to a halt more effectively than if someone had waved a red sign while shouting 'STOP!'

"Aaron? What's wrong?" Rossi gave full attention to the man shivering beneath his touch.

"Why are you doing this? I don't want to be put to sleep. Why do you want to drug me? What are you gonna do?"

All three of Hotch's teammates sensed their leader's deep-running anxiety.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. _Damn! Dude's got PTSD. It's like we'll be reenacting Rat-Face's attack on him. Poor guy…_

Reid hesitated, lids fluttering in sympathetic distress as he tried to reign in his enthusiasm. _This is Hotch. He needs to see the big picture so he can feel in control…but he can't control __**this**__, what we need to do to him, any more than he could control when Lewis was working on him. Poor guy…_

Rossi clenched his jaw muscles. _It's second nature to move at speed when we're brainstorming around Aaron. I keep forgetting Lewis turned him fragile. And no matter how often I tell him that whatever happened in his past when he was growing up doesn't affect how we see him today, he'll never believe it. Poor guy…_

"Give us a minute, boys." Dave angled his head toward the doorway, indicating the need for a private moment with his best friend. Obedient, Morgan and Reid retreated to the hallway, sharing complicit looks of concern.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi pulled a chair close, bringing him knee to knee with Hotch.

"Aaron, it sounds as though you don't trust us. And that's not like you."

"I know…I know…" The Unit Chief scrubbed at his brow with his good hand. "It's just you're going too fast. I need time to…I don't know…I…I just need time."

Dave reached out, pressing a warm palm against the younger man's lean cheek. "Normally, I wouldn't push you. I'd give you all the time in the world to heal. But I don't think you're worried about being a little strung out on painkillers. I think you're scared we're going to take an unsupervised stroll through all the parts of your past you've worked so hard to bury."

Hotch's breathing stuttered. "It took a long time to make it all go away, Dave. I don't want it all coming back."

Rossi's palm exerted pressure, lifting, coaxing eye contact. "That's just it, though. You _haven't_ made everything go away. It's all still inside you and still affecting everything you do. Right now you're so scared, you're not thinking the way you usually do: step by step, logical and efficient. We don't even know what it is Reid plans on doing. You're objecting on a gut level, Aaron…not an intellectual one."

"I know…" Hotch's dark eyes searched Rossi's, pleading. "I can't help it. Really don't want to…to…I don't know, Dave. I just don't want to." He swallowed, realizing he was in effect standing on a precipice with nowhere to go but forward. His eyes closed. "Help me? Stay with me?"

Rossi took a deep breath. "I promise. Now, I'm going to go talk to Reid and Morgan and see if they even have a viable battle plan and find out exactly what they hope to accomplish. Then, I'll come back and I'll either tell you all the details, or I'll explain why I can't tell you. And it'll be the truth. And you'll understand. Okay?"

Hotch bit his bottom lip and nodded.

"Good boy." Rossi stood, looking down at his dejected friend. "You have to believe your past is a bruise, Aaron. Not a tattoo. How it felt, how you suffered it will be part of your memory. But it's not visible to anyone else."

With that, the older agent went to find Morgan and Reid, leaving Hotch to contemplate the nature of injuries and their lingering effects, the most potent of which was fear of re-injury.


	88. No Clean Place Left

Rossi found Morgan and Reid loitering in the hallway.

He motioned for them to follow him to the kitchen, well out of Hotch's hearing. Once there, he began making coffee; a process that, in the Rossi mansion, began with grinding an elite breed of beans and could take up to 20 minutes to reach completion in the form of a richly aromatic, gourmet beverage. Dave found it a calming, therapeutic activity. Watching him had a soothing effect on his guests as well. He talked as he worked.

"We have a man with a lot of internal scars in there, who thinks we're going to use him like a museum exhibit, strolling through his past to rubberneck at all the oddities and freakish moments he keeps to himself." He glanced at Reid. "I told him I'd be honest with him, so I need to know more about your methods and your intentions, kid."

Spencer fidgeted, but dove into an exposé he hoped would ease Hotch's anxiety. "It's how Peter Lewis said he got into people's minds. I mean, sure there were the drugs he used that increased susceptibility to suggestion, but the things he mentioned specific to Hotch were…" Reid paused, stumbling over the awkwardness of being the first to broach sensitive subject matter. "…uh…that's when, uh…"

Rossi's smooth voice overrode. "That's when he got into Hotch's childhood."

"Yeah."

"So how did he use such a hot-button issue to get in deeper? Seems mentioning Aaron's formative years would put him on edge. Not exactly an atmosphere that would foster suggestibility no matter what medications Lewis administered."

"That's the…uh…uncomfortable part." Reid licked his lips, glancing over his shoulder as though he expected Hotch to be eavesdropping. "As far as I can tell, Lewis pretended to _be_ Hotch's father. And…and…" The young genius's voice thickened. "…I guess he did all the things a father's supposed to do, but Hotch never got…like hugging and praise and, well…general validation."

There was no use hiding; Reid bowed his head and let his eyes fill. He had missed a lot of the same paternal support. _But at least my father wasn't cruel. He was weak. But never cruel._

Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances, but kept quiet, letting their teammate work through this internal process. After a moment, Spencer gathered himself.

"I…I think the same means that Lewis used to harm, are the means that should be used to heal. I mean, it's like…like…hot glue! Yeah! You use heat to apply it and you can peel it away, mostly anyway, by using the same means…heat." Reid caught the quizzical looks from his colleagues. "Well, that's how I think of it. But the bottom line is, using the same method is the only shot we have. I think."

Nodding, Rossi looked pensive. "Alright. Now why does talking about this make you almost as jumpy as Hotch?"

Reid blinked a few times. It was just long enough for Morgan to step into the breach. "Pretty Boy's the one with the info and the expertise, since he's the one talked it out with Rat-Face. So…" Derek couldn't hide his grin. "…so he's the one who should take on the role of Bossman's dad. That'll be _interesting_ to watch."

"No one's going to watch anything, Morgan." Rossi's voice was stern. "This is a very private matter for Hotch. No audience. And as for you…" He turned to a clearly apprehensive Reid. "…if I can get him relaxed and on the edge of sleep, I don't think it'll make any difference if it's my voice or yours that walks him through this."

Spencer's lungs expanded with relief. He'd been breathing in tiny, nervous sips, worried about taking on a fatherly role that was totally alien to him.

Rossi smiled his understanding. "Look, I'll stay alone with him until I think he's ready, then you can come in and we'll see how it goes." He caught Morgan's eye. "And you can go home. I think it'll be easier for Hotch if the number two alpha male on his team isn't even on the premises."

Derek's grin faded. "I was just kidding, Rossi! I wanna help. Or at least be here to know he comes through it alright."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that, Morgan. But we've been over this before. He tenses when other alphas are around. Attendance should be on a need-to-be-here basis. Reid needs to be here for obvious reasons, and I'm the oldest. If anyone can come off as fatherly, it'll be me. Besides…" Dave smiled, raising a mocking brow. "…it's my crib. Go home. We'll call you when there's something to tell."

"Fine." Grumbling to himself, Morgan was almost to the front door when his spine stiffened. He turned, a phantom light bulb practically bursting into brightness over his head. "Wait a minute! I've got the video of Reid pulling Rat-Face's triggers! It'd do Hotch good to see it. And it'll do _us_ good to see him get a little revenge."

Rossi nodded. "Maybe you're right. Leave it in the foyer. Then, go home."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave left Reid to see Morgan out, and returned to his den and Hotch on his own.

The expression on the Unit Chief's face when he looked up, reminded the older man of a delinquent student called to the principal's office and made to wait outside while officials discussed his fate.

"Don't look so worried, Aaron. This isn't going to hurt."

The bruises swimming in the depths of Hotch's eyes said otherwise. "What are you going to do to me?"

Taking a seat beside his friend, Rossi sighed. "It's not as though we're keeping you captive and performing illicit experiments on you. Relax."

Letting his head fall back, Hotch closed his eyes. "Sorry. But you do understand my concern, don't you?"

"Yes. You don't want people delving into your past. You're a very private person." Rossi had gone for a lighter tone, hoping to ease the strained atmosphere before they got started. But when he gave Hotch a sidelong glance and read his body language…curled in on himself, partially turned away, cradling his injured arm, all signs that cried out for protection…he despaired of Reid's plan.

His hopes plummeted a little lower when Aaron spoke in a mournful monotone.

"You _don't_ understand, Dave. This…the BAU…my team…this is the only place that makes me feel maybe I might be worth something. Maybe all the disappointment and anger and degradation weren't my fault. Maybe my dad wasn't right about me. This was the only clean place in my life; the only place where that loser kid, who Dad told me I was, hadn't left a trace. And now…it's not. He's here. Once you guys do this, even if no one ever mentions it again, I'll know. And there won't be anyplace left where the loser hasn't been."

Rossi's heart ached. He knew the effort it had taken for Aaron to open up that much. He didn't want to tell the younger man that it was already too late. That it had been too late for a long time. His team suspected he'd had a rough past, but never spoke of it even among themselves. It was a measure of the respect they had for their Unit Chief.

Rossi wanted to repeat that it didn't matter. The past was the past. Yet the boy who'd been taught he was a loser still looked out of the man's eyes, and still crouched deep in the man's soul, hampering his spirit and keeping him from the simple, everyday joy that Dave felt he deserved.

Rossi wanted to say a lot of things, but he felt conversation was a delaying tactic. So he held out his hand with two of Hotch's prescription painkillers resting on his palm and said the only thing worth saying at the moment.

"Take them, Aaron. I promise I won't leave you. I promise it'll be okay. Take them."

With something like a sob, Hotch did.


	89. Talk

In the end Rossi was glad he'd taken the lead.

He didn't think Reid would have been able to maintain the necessary calm façade.

After Hotch had taken his pills, they'd talked for a while. The hard part had been the wide, frightened look in Aaron's eyes throughout. He was focused on Dave, keeping the older man centered in his vision at all times.

It reminded Rossi of the moment this whole journey had begun; the moment he'd found Hotch sitting on the floor, victimized, terrorized; his first words 'He made me see things.' Dave had followed protocol, running his hands over the Unit Chief's body, searching for wounds requiring immediate care. Doing so, he'd been aware of Aaron's night-dark eyes tracking him. A chill had coiled in Rossi's gut like a leaden snake sluggish with doom. He'd known then deep inside, that the damage he'd find wasn't physical.

But the eyes, the eyes, the eyes…Dave had almost been afraid to meet Hotch's gaze. The depth of anguish was intolerable. _I think I knew that it would be a long journey back. I just didn't know the details. Now I do. And now I'll look him in the eye and I'll make him believe there's a safe, clean place for him in this world._

In the meantime, reassurance was needed.

"You haven't told me exactly what you're going to do." Hotch's voice was low, a counterpoint to the anxiety bubbling just below the surface.

Rossi leaned back, stretching his arm across the couch behind the younger man's shoulders. It was a demonstration of ease that he hoped Aaron would emulate. He let his fingers rest on the shoulder in front of them. "If I don't go into detail, it's because I don't want you overthinking and worrying and, in effect, negating the painkillers."

Hotch swallowed. He didn't really want to know what would happen. He wanted it over and done with. He wanted tomorrow to come with a resolution one way or the other. "So, you, Morgan and Reid…"

"I sent Morgan home. He wanted to stay, but I wouldn't let him." Rossi grinned. "Apparently, Derek has video he wants to show you. Something about the kid pulling some of Lewis's triggers. He thought it'd be appropriate afterwards."

Something changed in Hotch's expression; a slight shift. It was the confidence in Morgan's assumption that his boss would come through to the other side and be in the mood to share a little well-earned vengeance. Aaron didn't think he wanted to see anyone's distress, but Derek's certainty in the outcome of this intervention was welcome.

"And Reid'll be here, but for now, it's just you and me." Dave let his outstretched arm make only enough contact to provide faint warmth. It was tactile proof of his steady presence. Inside, he chuckled. _Seems I recall making a move like this when I was 16 on my first date in a movie theatre. Never thought I'd be using it to keep my best friend from jumping out of his skin._ "All I'm going to do is talk to you, Aaron. The aim is to overwrite the sound of Lewis's voice and its effects. That's really all I can tell you. And that's not so scary, is it?"

"Uh-uh…" Hotch's head leaned back against the older man's arm, and turned to the side. He was still keeping Rossi as his visual focal point. Dave kept up a continual stream of inconsequential patter, holding eye contact as much as he could, considering the sadness in their depths…waiting for the drugs to kick in.

"Well, we Italians are renowned talkers; hell, we're famous for doing it with our hands, too. And we've got the corner on opera, which is just a ramped-up kind of talking…" Rossi adopted a nostalgic smile, hoping to introduce the subject of paternity in a non-threatening manner. "I remember my father wasn't much of a talker, though. Except when we kids would get on his nerves. Still can hear him telling us to 'Shadddupppp!' when I'd have friends over and we'd get a little out of control…"

Hotch's blinks were slowing down.

"The other thing he'd always yell was 'C'meeeeeer!' when there was something he thought we should see that would underscore how proud we should all be of our heritage…" Rossi chuckled.

Aaron's eyes were glazing over. Dave hoped it was the painkillers and not boredom with the conversation. But either way…

"And when it comes to talking at family gatherings, you can't beat a big Italian family; the roar of the crowd…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi's voice was like a drumbeat.

Low. Sonorous. Steady.

After a while Hotch didn't pay attention to the words. He let them swirl over and around him like a river of velvet. He didn't want to be rude, but he couldn't help it. His lids felt weighted, pulled down until Dave was a blur of familiar color.

A comfortable blur making a comfortable noise.

Something was dragging on him, coaxing him to turn slightly and lean against something…someone?...He wasn't sure anymore. But it felt safe and warm and it eased his hurt shoulder to be braced and bolstered like that.

Hotch gave a deep, contented sigh.

He'd been scared, but this wasn't so bad…

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid had been biding his time in the hallway, listening to Rossi's monologue.

When the older man's voice didn't change tempo or volume, but said his name, he peeked around the corner into the den. Hotch was definitely under the influence. Not out, but down for the count.

The young doctor entered on soft steps.

With the same measured tone and cadence, Dave asked Reid to help him maneuver their boss into a more comfortable position. When they were done, Hotch was leaning against Rossi, head and shoulders cradled in the older man's arms. Rossi looked down at the rare expression of peace on his best friend's face.

"Okay, kid, keep your voice down and lead me through this…"


	90. Teamwork

They made a great team.

Reid blazed the trail, murmuring suggestions and hunches based on his conversations with Peter Lewis, while Rossi followed the genius's lead with a father's instincts and an author's imaginative literacy. The first moments were difficult until Dave accessed his own inner landscape, drawing from his own experiences and heartfelt regrets.

He had a daughter, although he would always feel cheated out of having had the experience of raising her, of being present for every little step and triumph and heartbreak. Deeper down, though, Rossi still harbored the frustrated desire for a son. It lived side by side with the tiny body buried beneath a headstone in a graveyard he still visited, paying homage to his first wife and the only male child of his body, Carolyn and James.

So when he gazed down at the still features of the dark-haired man in his arms, it wasn't such a very big leap to set his own dreams and might-have-beens free.

_My son would have been like this…a little taller than myself, blacker hair, brown-eyed. But more than that, my son would have been honest and kind and strong. He would have fought by my side. He would have turned to me with those tragic eyes when the world was needlessly cruel. He would have needed explanations and comfort because his soul would have been innocent of the desire to hurt others._

_He would have been a creature formed of trust and nobility. A prince from another time, set down in a world sorely in need of princes. A man compelled to hide his soft spots, in order to do a hard job and endure a harder fate._

Rossi stroked Hotch's hair back from his pale, high forehead and did as Reid instructed; he played the part of a father in order to slip past Aaron's defenses into the deepest part of him.

Only Spencer didn't know that Dave wasn't acting.

He poured out his paternal heart, telling the younger man how proud he was of him. Rossi said all the things he'd imagined saying during the long, lonely years when he'd pretended his son had lived and was merely out of touch at the moment.

When Dave pulled Hotch closer in a gentle hug and whispered, "Ti amo, Aaron…ti amo sempre…" _I love you, Aaron…I love you always…_and Hotch snuggled in, emitting a soft sound, Reid felt it was time to move on. He could sense an emotional bond between the two; a connection strong enough for the older man to have the younger's subconscious 'ear.'

XXXXXXXXXXX

"We're going to work our way backwards, Rossi."

Spencer's voice was barely above a whisper. "We'll start with the last trigger. It was like a combination of taste and smell; the odor of blood and flesh being tied to Haley's death. Talk to Hotch. Make him connect her to other scents."

Dave's eyes were half-closed. He felt himself to be an oasis of calm, an endless sea whose ripples carried gentle words in on a tide that would smooth away everything in its path. The poetry of his author's soul worked to paint scenes from the past.

"Aaron, remember your wife, Aaron. Remember Haley." Bits and pieces of the Hotchners' lives together, comments from Aaron floated to the surface of Rossi's own memory, offering inspiration.

"Remember Haley on your honeymoon, Aaron. You went to Hawaii. The fragrant leis around her neck when you crushed their blossoms beneath your lips. You stole hungry kisses from your new bride, releasing the aroma of frangipani, the plumeria perfume you bought her every year to remind her. Aaron, remember Haley preparing meals you sometimes had to miss; a kitchen warm with holiday roasts, with pies and birthday cakes for Jack. Aaron, remember Haley's scent…all her own, mixing with yours after long, lazy sex. Remember, Aaron…remember…

Reid was a little stunned. He'd no idea Rossi would be able to conjure such personal, yet authentic-seeming, images. He wondered if they were real. There was no time to ask. They had to keep moving.

"Rossi, the tactile trigger…the gun…"

Dave paused, separating his own mind from the domestic warmth of the Hotchner marriage in its early years.

"Aaron, remember the way it felt on the shooting range. Training for SWAT. The praise, the astonished looks when your marksmanship revealed itself…How surprised _you_ were at this unexpected talent. Remember, Aaron…remember the way any firearm you touched felt like home, like an extension of yourself…an expansion of yourself. We were all so proud of you. Hot shot…sure shot…the weapon as smooth and fitted as your own hand. The heft…the weight of it…you felt it and you could work magic through it…remember, Aaron…"

"The color red, Rossi…the visual trigger…make him see another kind of red. Anything but blood."

Dave's eyes were closed. He was bent over Hotch, directing his words, his very breath at their target. He was surprised and gratified at how images came to him, sensual and immediate. He passed them on…

"Aaron…remember, Aaron…gathering at my home with the team, sharing goblets of deep, red wine so smooth and rich it tasted like Tuscany itself. And roses…you were always one to give roses to the ladies…the petals so red you expected them to feel like hot velvet. And remember sunset, Aaron…remember color streaked across the sky as though the wind carried drifts of rubies crushed to dust…Remember, Aaron…"

"Rossi…" Spencer felt his stomach tighten. This was the deepest trigger, the aural one…the one tied to Lewis's voice. "…talk to him about fear, about…" Reid swallowed. "…about getting shot in the neck…about pain…about death…"

But Dave kept murmuring about the color red…red velvet cupcakes…red holly berries in the snow…a woman's red, red lips… He couldn't think of anything pleasant to do with pain, fear, death. Nothing. He was blank. _And that's the catch, the power of it, isn't it? There's no way out._

Spencer waited; his concern growing with each passing moment that Rossi didn't embark on the deepest trigger of all. And then the older man stopped the constant flow of words.

A little breathless from his nonstop monologue, Dave stared at Hotch, so compliant in his arms. He could feel Reid's eyes on him, questioning his silence. He gave his head an absent shake, and pulled the Unit Chief closer yet.

"Aaron…Aaron, I hope you can hear me, because…because I can't tell you not to be afraid of pain, or of dying, or of losing a teammate. I'm scared of those things, too. I don't have the answers, but, if it's any comfort, you're not alone. In your deepest dread, your worst fears, look behind you…and look to either side…and you'll see the rest of humanity lining up with you. But the one who'll take your hand and won't let go?...that'll be me. We're all scared, Aaron. And that's an okay way to be. It means we're alive, and we're human, and we still have things we want to do and people we want to do them with.

"It's okay to be scared…it's okay…it's okay…" Eyes damp, Rossi looked at Reid, thinking he'd see disappointment; they'd been doing so well up to now; there'd been so much alternate material for each trigger. Not anymore.

But the young doctor was focused on Hotch. Rossi followed his gaze. The Unit Chief had the faintest ghost of a smile. As the others watched, Aaron snuggled in deeper. His words came out on an easy, calm sigh.

" 'S okay… 'S okay…Dad says 's okay…okay..."


	91. Lazy Day

Hotch drifted off to sleep.

There was nothing to keep him from it. No voices. No anxiety working its way into panic. He settled into dark, quiet peace. And then, after a while, images began to surface.

He dreamt of an unfamiliar landscape; something he'd never seen in waking life, but was sure was Italy nonetheless. It smelled of flowers and wine and summer; all fragrant and dry. There was a soft murmuring that might have been a voice, if rolling hills veiled with roses, and crimson skies could speak. The land cradled him and promised, if not safety, then companionship. This place would be his home.

It was enough.

It gave him permission to be a less-than-perfect, messy-lifed human.

It felt good. It sounded right.

The best thing was that it didn't sound a bit like Peter Lewis.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi and Reid had adjourned to the kitchen and the soothing ceremony of creating coffee. Dave tipped a large splash of cognac into his, and tilted the bottle toward Spencer by way of invitation.

"No, thanks." The young genius had a dazed look about him. He continued to regard Rossi with large, questioning eyes.

The older man took a healthy gulp of his drink. "You think I made a mistake? At the end? By not coming up with some fairytale take on his deepest primal fears?"

Reid gave his head a slow shake. "No…no, I just think you went someplace I didn't consider."

Rossi's brows rose. He hadn't thought there _was_ such a thing as an overlooked possibility when it came to Spencer's lightning-bolt intellect. On the other hand, the kid was always learning. Part of his genius was the endless flexibility of his mind. Dave found it exhausting just to contemplate the incessant activity of the younger man's thoughts.

"No, I think if you hadn't been completely honest, Hotch would have known. On that subliminal level that Lewis reached, he'd have recognized false comfort. I think you did the right thing, Rossi."

Dave took another deep drink. "Well, we won't know for sure until he wakes up. Any idea how long before he does?"

"Hours." Reid shrugged. "My guess is that the longer he's out, the better. It won't only be a reflection of the painkillers he took; if we did it right, he'll finally be able to rest. Lewis'll be out of him and he'll finally be able to truly, deeply rest."

Rossi gazed at his cup, sighing. "Then here's hoping Hotch is out for hours."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

He was.

When the Unit Chief opened his eyes, he blinked at the beamed ceiling and wondered where he was. It took a few minutes for him to orient himself. _Rossi's. I'm at Dave's and…and I was scared. Now…not so much._

He raised his head and looked around, trying to shake the surreal feeling that he'd fallen asleep in one world, and awakened in another.

Judging by the golden light seeping around the edges of pulled drapes, it was late afternoon. That in itself was confusing. He remembered it had been afternoon when Morgan and Reid had returned from their mission at the Garrett County jail. _How long have I been here?_

He was pleased to feel clear-headed, his profiler's instincts performing on point. He felt gritty and his mouth didn't taste as fresh as he'd like. _So I haven't showered or brushed my teeth for a while._

Hotch swung his legs off the couch, planting his feet firmly on the floor and sitting up. A wave of dizziness swamped him, forcing him to lean over his knees, lowering his head in the classic Oh-God-don't-let-me-faint position. _So I've been lying down for a long time. Gotta take this slow._

Once the room stopped spinning and the pounding of his own pulse receded from his ears, he became aware that the house felt deserted. He strained, but detected no sound of movement or conversation. _But in a place this size, that doesn't mean much. For all I know, Dave could be hosting Mardi Gras in a back room._

He straightened up and realized his shoulder hurt, but other joints objected, too. His body was stiff with disuse. Glancing at himself, he saw someone had removed his shoes and had undone the top few buttons of the polo shirt he was wearing.

Hotch gave himself plenty of time to stand up, his muscle-memory adjusting automatically now for the immobilized shoulder.Once on his feet, he made a slow way out into the hall. He stopped to listen, but still didn't hear sounds that would indicate nearby occupants. _Just as well. I'm not presentable until I hit the shower._

He continued down the hall to the staircase and pulled himself up, his good hand on the banister. Upstairs, he hesitated at the door to the room Rossi had given him. Something was on the bed. Moving closer, Hotch saw it was a camera. He frowned, puzzled until he saw the note folded in a neat square beneath it.

'Morgan shot vid of the kid and Lewis. Wanted to give you the chance to watch it alone.'

Aaron stared at the piece of paper in Dave's handwriting. He felt like Alice in Wonderland finding a bottle of unknown properties labeled 'Drink Me.' Maybe a pre-teen girl who'd banged her head falling down a rabbit hole wouldn't have any qualms about doing as instructed, but Hotch felt differently.

With unwarranted caution, he folded the note and replaced it. But it lingered in his thoughts.

Now a little preoccupied, he raided his go-bag for a change of clothes and adjourned to the bathroom. As he undressed, careful to keep his shoulder as still as possible, he scratched at himself. A lopsided smile touched his lips. He recalled the first time he and Haley had spent an entire night together in the same bed. He'd felt so luxurious the next morning; so satisfied and happy. He'd awakened and indulged in a bout of blissful scratching, much to Haley's giggling amusement.

"Hey, all guys scratch in the morning," he'd offered in his own defense against her unbridled laughter.

Hotch grinned at the memory. A whiff of plumeria…or maybe it was the sweetness of a baking cake…wafted through his senses as he entered the shower.

_Wonder where that came from…_

It was the first time in ages that he'd thought of his deceased ex-wife without feeling bad.

XXXXXXXXXX

Downstairs, Rossi was stretched out on a lounge chair on his patio, Mudge by his side.

When the dog's head came up, ears forward, wrinkling the area between them into furry creases, Dave put down the paper he'd been reading and stepped through the glass doors into the kitchen. He listened for a moment, head cocked to one side.

Upstairs, the faint sound of a shower came on.

Rossi grinned. He pulled out his phone and punched in one of his speed-dial numbers.

"Hey, kid. Rip Van Winkle's up….No, haven't talked to him yet. He's in the shower. Bring Morgan with you. I'll start dinner. See ya soon."

Humming an aria from a Verdi opera, Rossi set to work. He hoped Aaron was up for a big meal.

He also hoped he was up for some company…and some scrutiny.


	92. Tables Turned

Hotch emerged from his shower feeling much more relaxed than he had in years.

It puzzled him. The stress and mind-games related to Peter Lewis had begun a little over a week ago. What he felt now made him think whatever Rossi and the team had done to him had been like a total house-cleaning of his psyche.

He frowned as he toweled off, wincing at his damaged shoulder. The injury reminded him that he had a long recuperation ahead even if his mental and emotional states were back on track.

It took him longer than usual to shave and dress. Working with one good arm made it necessary to re-choreograph activities that used to be unthinking habit. When he was almost done, he heard rustling noises in the bedroom. He opened the door and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee.

A steaming cup sat on the nightstand; a gift from his host.

Hotch felt pampered. _I could get used to this. But then, I'd get bored with it. People are weird that way. They can adapt to almost anything._ He sighed. _So I wonder how the team feels about me after all this. I wonder if they can adapt to having seen some pretty unpleasant things surface._

He sipped the coffee as his gaze strayed to the bed where the camera and Rossi's note were still camped out in the center. Hotch didn't know it, but a trace of sorrow crept back into his eyes. _They left me video of Lewis losing it, which means they have a reasonable expectation that I'll watch it._ He sat down on the edge of the mattress. _Which means the recording of __**me**__ losing it disturbed them enough to set them on a course for revenge. So what they did…what's on here…isn't just about repairing me. It's about punishing an unsub. For me._

Hotch stared at the camera, lost in thought; unsure of how he felt about the vengeance aspect of what he was certain was an otherwise exemplary demonstration of professional skills on Reid's part. But the desire to hurt Lewis in reparation bothered him. His youngest agent wasn't like that. His youngest agent had an unusual lack of bitterness and cruelty. It was a rare facet of Spencer's character that his Unit Chief treasured.

_And that's what I told Dave I've been afraid all along would be endangered if Reid was pitted against Lewis._

"Aaron?" The softly questioning sound of his name pulled Hotch back to his immediate surroundings. Rossi stood in the doorway, studying him.

"Dave." Hotch gave the camera a last, thoughtful look.

"Did you watch it?"

"No. Did you?" He looked up at the older man's grave expression.

"I did."

"And…?"

"And I think it's important for you to know that Reid _didn't_ watch it."

"Reid lived it."

"But he didn't want to _re_-live it." Rossi lowered his chin, regarding Hotch from beneath dark brows. "Do you understand the difference?"

The younger man nodded. "I do…yes…"

"Good. Now…" Dave glanced back over his shoulder as his doorbell's rich tones chimed through the mansion. "…that'll be Morgan and the kid. How are you feeling? Up to coming down and sharing a meal? Letting them nose around you so they can stop worrying?"

Hotch's sigh was achingly deep. "I made my team worry. That's not good."

"It's a two-way street, Aaron, so get over it. You've been worried sick about Reid going up against Lewis. I know you have."

The Unit Chief nodded. "Yeah. And that's why I'll _have_ to watch that video at some point. So I can know what he went through. Even if I don't really want to."

A glimmer of a grin came through Rossi's reply. "Well, if it's any consolation, when _I_ watched it, I was proud of Reid. And I don't think what happened to Lewis was cruel and unusual punishment. Come on, Aaron. Let's go downstairs, have a nice dinner, a couple glasses of wine...?" He saw the still green-about-the-gills look Hotch gave him. "…Okay. No wine for you or Reid; he tied one on, too…night before last…"

"Night before last?! How long have I been out?"

Dave glanced at his watch. "A little over 24 hours. So you must be hungry. And talking to your teammates is the best way to realize that they came through this just fine." He raised one brow. "And they're wondering the same thing about you, ya know."

Hotch nodded, one corner of his lips quirking upward. "I came through this better than okay. Whatever you guys did, I feel better…calmer…than I have in a while." He gave Rossi a searching look. "I don't suppose anyone thought to record _that_ process, did they?"

" 'Fraid not. And just so you know…" A smug expression came over the older man's features. "…any recordings in which you were the star player have been destroyed. Garcia's been busy infiltrating and erasing while you've been out."

"Huh." Hotch returned his regard to the camera. "You know, it might have made good material for some of the psychological training seminars. You _sure_ there's nothing left? _Anywhere_?"

Rossi watched his friend through narrowed lids. "Nice try. The only video _you_ get…" He pointed at the camera with his chin. "…is _that_ one." He turned as the doorbell rang again, muttering in a disgusted tone. "Sneaky, little weasel…_must_ be feeling better to try getting tricky…"

Standing, Hotch chuckled to himself. He gave the camera one more lingering look. His stomach growled. He could hear voices downstairs. And none of them were Peter Lewis's.

It was time to go down and thank his team.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"What the hell's gotten into Creep-Boy?"

The night guard at the Garrett County jail dumped the inmate's untouched dinner tray in the trash, grimacing at the image his least favorite prisoner had emblazoned on his mind.

"Dunno." His partner shrugged. "He's been like that for two days now. I heard his attorney cut him loose, which is kinda funny considering I heard he was gonna shoot for an insanity plea. I always thought that was a big, 'ol cop-out for a nasty piece of work."

"Well, what's gonna happen? We can't keep him here. Not like _that_."

"They'll probably transfer him to Potomac Hills."

"The mental institution?"

"Only place he belongs now…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis had a brilliant mind.

So brilliant, it could create its own endless reality out of voices and faces and guilt and horror.

It was a pity the only one who might have understood was an FBI agent. It was also a pity that Peter didn't have friends who would risk everything, try everything, and never give up until they'd rescued him from such a scary place.

Yes…a pity Peter didn't have friends like that.

The agent did.

~The End~


End file.
